UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


GENIUS  AND  CHARACTER 


OF 


ROBEPtT    BURNS. 


AN     ESUAY     AS  n      CRITICISM    (J  .V      HI  S 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS, 


WITH     QUOTATIONS     FROM     THE     BEST     PASSAGES. 


JOHN     WILSON. 

LATE   PKOFE880R   OF  MORAL   PHILOSOPHY   IN   THE   UXIVEB3ITY  OF   EDINBVRGH. 


"  Nevertheless,  wc  are  far  from  thinking  that  the  probleia  of  Bums's  Biojp-aphy  has  yet  been  ade- 
!  qiialely  solved.    We  do  not  allude  eo  much  lo  deficiency  of  facts  or  documents, — though  of  these  we 
\  are  still  every  day  receiving  some  fiesti  accession  ;  as  to  the  limited  and  icaperfect  application  of  iheni 
,  to  the  great  end  of  Biography.    Our  notions  upon  this  suUject  may  perhaps  appear  extravagant ;  but 
if  an  individual  is  really  of  consequeuce  enough  lo  have  his  life  and  character  recorded  for  puMic 
retnetnbrance,  we  have  always  been  of  opinion,  that  the  public  ought  to  be  made  acquaintetJ  wiih  all 
(he  inward  springe  and  relations  of  his  character.     How  did  the  world  and  man's  life,  from  his  particu- 
lar position,  represent  themselves  lo  his  mind?    How  did  co-existing  circumstances  modify  him  fr<un 
!  without ;  how  did  he  modify  these  froni  within  ?    With  what  endeavours  and  what  etficacy  rule  over 
\  them  ;  with  what  resistance  and  wliai  sulTering  sink  under  them?    In  one  word,  what  and  how  pro- 
\  duced  was  the  effect  on  society  7    He  who  should  answer  these  quealions,  in  regard  lo  any  individual, 
.  would,  as  we  believe,  furnish  a  model  of  perfection  in  biography.'*  T.    CARLYLE, 


*       ■»     .  »  . 


V  t>       t  ^        -4 


NEW      YORK: 

WILLIAM     GO  WANS 


O  1  3  2       !^1861, 


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4 


ON  THE 


GENIUS  AND  CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


BY  PROFESSOR  WILSON. 
«^ 

Burns  13  by  far  the   greatest  poet  that  ever  sprung  from  the 

bosom  of  the  people,  and  lived  and  died  in  an  humble  condition. 

Indeed,  no  country  in  the  world  but  Scotland   could  have  pro- 

'!    duced  such  a  man;  and  he  will   be   for  ever  regarded  as  the 

■s^'  glorious  representative  of  the  genius  of  his  country.     He  was 

born  a  poet,  if  ever  man  was,  and  to' his  native  genius  alone  is 

owing  the  perpetuity  of  his  fame.     For  he  manifestly  had  never 

very  deeply  studied  poetry  as  an  art,  nor  reasoned  much  about 

\  its  principles,  nor  looked  abroad  with  the  wide  ken  of  intellect 

^  for  objects  and  subjects  on  which  to  pour  out  his  inspiration. 

i^'iie  condition  of  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  the  ■  happiest,  per- 

^   haps,  that  providence  ever^llowed  to  the  children  of  labor,  was 

|s?  not  surveyed  and  speculated  on  by  him  as  the  field  of  poetry, 

but  as  the   field  of  his  own  existence ;  and  he  clironicled  the 

events  that  passed  there,  not  merely  as  food  for  his  imagination 

as  a  poet,  but  as  food  for  his  heart  as  a  man.     Hence,  when 

inspired   to  compose  poetry,  poetry  came  gushing   up  from  the 

well  of  his  human  affections,  and   he  had   nothing  more  to  do, 

tlian  to  pour  it.'like  streams  irrigating  a   meadow,  in   many  a 

cheerful  tide  over  the  drooping   flowers  and   fading  verdure  of 

life.     Imbued  with  vivid  perceptions,  warm  feelings,  and  strong 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


passions,  he  sent  his  own  existence  into  that  of  all  things, 
animate  and  inanimate,  around  iiiin ;  and  not  an  occurrence  in 
liamlet,  village,  or  town,  affecting  in  any  way  the  happiness  of 
the  human  heart,  but  roused  as  keen  an  interest  in  the  soul  of 
Burns,  and  as  genial  a  sympathy,  as  if  it  had  immediately  con- 
cerned himself  and  his  own  individual  w^elfarc.  Most  other 
poets  of  rural  life  have  lookuu  on  it  through  the  aerial  veil  of 
imagination — often  beautified,  no  doubt,  by  such  partial  conceal- 
ment, and  beaming  with  a  misty  softness  more  delicate  than  the 
truth.  But  Burns  would  not  thus  indulge  his  fancy  where  he 
had  felt — felt  so  poignantly,  all  the  agonies  and  all  the  trans- 
ports of  life.  He  looked  around  him,  and  when  he  saw  the 
smoke  of  the  cottage  rising  up  quietly  and  unbroken  to  heaven, 
he  knew,  for  he  had  seen  and  blessed  it,  the  quiet  joy  and  un- 
broken contentment  tliat  slept  below ;  and  •when  he  saw  it 
driven  and  dispersed  by  the  winds,  he  knew  also  but  too  well, 
for  too  sorely  had  he  felt  th(3m,  those  agitations  and  disturbances 
which  had  shook  him  till  he  wept  on  his  chaff  bed.  In  reading 
his  poetry,  therefore,  we  know  what  unsubslantial  dreams  are 
all  those  of  the  golden  age.  But  bliss  beams  upon  us  with  a 
more  subduing  brightness  through  the  dim  melancholy  that 
shrouds  lowly  life  ;  and  when  the  peasant  Burns  rises  up  in  his 
might  as  Burns  the  poet,  and  is  seen  to  derive  all  that  might 
from  the  life  which  at  this  hour  the  peasantry  of  Scotland  are 
leading,  our  hearts  leap  within  us,  because  tliat  such  is  our 
country,  and  such  the  nobility  of  her  children.  There  is  no 
delusion,  no  affectation,  no  exaggeration,  no  falsehood  in  the 
spirit  of  Bunfs's  poetry.  He  rejoices  like  an  untamed  enthu- 
siast, and  he  weeps  like  a  prostra^  penitent.  In  joy  and  in 
grief  the  whole  man  appears  :  some  of  his  finest  effusions  were 
poured  out  before  he  left  the  fields  of  his  childhood,  and  when 
he  scarcely  hoped  for  other  auditors  than  his  own  heart,  and  the 
simple  dwellers  of  the  hamlet.  lie  wrote  not  to  please  or  sur- 
prise others — we  speak  of  those  first  effusions — but  in  his  own 
creative  delight ;  and  even  after  he  had  discovered  his  power  to 
kindle  the  sparks  of  nature  wherever  they  sluiffl)ercd,  the  effect 
to  be  produced  seldom  seems  to  have  been  considered  by  him, 
assured  that  his  poetry  could  not  fail   to  produce  the  same  pas- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  .  3 

■ '—I '■ ■ 

sion  in  the  hearts  of  other  men  from  which  it  boiled  over  in  his 

own.  Out  of  liimself,  and  beyond  his  own  nearest  and  dearest 
concerns,  he  well  could,  but  lie  did  not  much  love  often  or  long 
to  go.  His  imagination  wanted  not  wings  broad  and  strong  for 
higliest  flights.  But  he  was  ruost  al  home  when  waliting  on  this 
earth,  through  this  world,  even  along  the  banks  and  braes  of  tne 
streams  of  Coila.  It  seems  as  if  his  muse  were  loth  to  admit 
almost  any  thought,  feeling,  image,  drawn  from  any  other  region 
than  his  native  district — the  hearth-stone  of  his  father's  hut — 
the  still  or  troubled  chamber  of  his'own  generous  and  passionate 
bosom.  Dear  to  him  the  jocund  laughter  of  the  reapers  on  the 
corn-field,  the  tears  and  sighs  whicli  iiis  own  strains  had  won 
from  the  children  of  nature  enjoying  the  mid-day  hour  of  rest 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hedgerow  tree.  With  what  pathetic 
personal  power,  from  all  the  circumstances  of  his  character  and 
condition,  do  many  of  his  humblest  lines  aff(OCt  us!  Often,  too 
often,  as  we  hear  him  singing,  we  think  that  we  see  him  suffer, 
ing !  "  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"  he  often  is,  even  in  his 
merriment !  In  him,  alas  !  the  transports  of  inspiration  are  but 
too  closely  allied  with  reality's  kindred  agonies!  The  strings 
of  his  lyre  sometimes  yield  their  finest  music  to  the  sighs  of 
remorse  or  repentance:  Whatever,  therefore,  be  tiie  faults  or 
defects  of  the  poetry  of  Burns — and  no  doubt  it  has  many — it 
has,  beyond  all  that  ever  was  written,  this  greatest  of  all  merits, 
intense,  life-pervading,  and  life-breatliing  trutii. 

There  is  probably  not  a  human  being  come  to  the  years  of 
understanding  in  all  Scotland,  who  has  not  heard  of  the  name 
of  Robert  Burns.  It  is,  indeed,  a  household  word.  His  poems 
are  found  lying  in  almost  every  cottage  in  the  country,  on  the 
"  window  sole  "  of  the  kitchen,  spence,  or  parlor  ;  and  in  the 
town-dwellings  of  the  industrious  poor,  if  books  belong  to  tiie 
family  at  all,  you  are  pretty  sure  to  see  there  the  dear  Ayrshire 
Ploughman.  Tlie  father  or  mother,  born  and  long  bred,  per- 
haps, among  banks  and  braes,  possesses,  in  that  small  volume, 
a  talisman  that  awakens  in  a  moment  all  the  sweet  visions  of 
the  past,  and  that  can  crowd  the  dim  abode  of  liard-working 
poverty,  witli  a  world  of  dear  rural  remembrances  that  awaken 
not  repining  but  contentment. 

1* 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


No  poet  ever  lived  more  constantly  and  more  intimately  in 
the  hearts  of  a  people.  Wiih  their  mirth,  or  with  their  melan- 
choly, how  often  do  his  "  native  wood-notes  wild "  affect  the 
sitters  by  the  ingles  of  low-roofed  homes,  till  their  hearts  over- 
flow with  feelings  that  place  them  on  a  level,  as  moral  creatures, 
with  the  most  enlightened  in  the  land,  and  more  tlian  reconcile 
them  with,  make  them  proud  of,  the  condition  assigned  them  by 
Providence !  There  they  see  with  pride  the  reflection  of  the 
character  and  condition  of  their  own  order.  That  pride  is  one 
of  the  best  natural  props  of  poverty  ;  for,  supported  by  it,  the 
poor  envy  not  the  rich.  They  exult  to  know  and  to  feel  that 
they  have  had  treasures  bequeathed  to  them  by  one  of  them-, 
selves — treasures  of  the  heart,  the  intellect,  the  fancy,  and  the 
imagination,  of  which  the  possession  and  the  enjoyment  are  one 
and  the  same,  as  long  as  they  preserve  their  integrity  and  their 
independence.  The  poor  man,  as  he  speaks  of  Robert  Burns, 
always  holds  up  his  head  and  regards  you  with  an  elated  look. 
A  tender  thought  of  the  •'  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  or  a  bold 
thought  of  "Scots-wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  may  come  across 
him  ;  and  he  who  in  such  a  spirit  loves  home  and  country,  by 
whose  side  may  he  not  walk  an  equal  in  the  broad  eye  of  day 
as  it  shines  over  our  Scottish  hills  ?  This  is  true  popularity. 
Thus  interpreted,  the  word  sounds  well,  and  recovers  its  ancient 
meaning.  The  land  "  made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow," — 
the  broomy  or  the  heathery  braes — the  holms  by  the  river's  side 
— the  forest  where  the  woodman's  ringing  axe  no  more  disturbs 
the  cushat — the  deep  dell  where  all  day  long  sits  solitary  plaided 
boy  or  girl  watching  the  kine  or  the  siieep — the  moorland  hut 
without  any  garden— the  lowland  cottage,  whose  garden  glows 
like  a  very  orchard,  when  crimsoned  with  fruit- blossoms  most 
beautiful  to  behold- — the  sylvan  homestead  sending  its  reek  aloft 
over  the  huge  sycamore  that  blackens  on  the  hill-side — the 
straw-roofed  village  gathering  with  small  bright  crofts  its  many 
white  gable-ends  round  and  about  the  niodest  manse,  and  the 
kirk-spire  Covered  with  the  pine-tree  tliat  shadows  its  horologe — 
the  small,  quiet,  half-slated  half-thatchfd  rural  town, — there 
resides,  and  will  for  ever  reside,  the  immortal  genius  of  Burns. 
Oh,   that  he,   the   prevailing  Poet,  could  have  seen   tl;iis    light 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


breaking  in  upon  the  darkness  that  did  too  long  and  too  deeply 
overshadow  his  lot!  Some  glorious  glimpses  of  it  his  prophetic 
soul  did  see  ',  witness  "The  Vision,"  or  tliat  somewhat  humbler 
but  yet  high  strain,  in  which,  bethinking  him  of  the  undefined 
asnirations  of  his  boyhood  he  said  to  himself — 

"  Even  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power,  • 

A  wish  tliat  to  my  latest  hour, 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast. 
That  I,  lor  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  would  make. 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least ! 

"  The  rough  bur-thistle  spreading  wide 
Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turned  the  weeder-clips  aside 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear." 

Such  hopes  were  with  him  in  his  "  bright  and  shining  youth," 
surrounded  as  it  was  with  toil  and  trouble  that  could  not  bend 
his  brow  from  its  natural  upward  inclination  to  the  sky  ;  and 
such  hopes,  let  us  doubt  it  not,  were  also  with  him  in  his  dark 
and  faded  prime,  when  life's  lamp  burned  low  indeed,  and  he 
was  willing  at  last,  early  as  it  was,  to  shut  his  eyes  on  this 
dearly  beloved  but  sorely  distracting  world. 

With  what  strong  and  steady  enthusiasm  is  the  anniversary  of 
Burns's  birth-day  celebrated,  not  only  ail  over  his  own  native 
land,  but  in  every  country  to  which  an  adventurous  spirit  has 
carried  her  sons  !  On  such  occasions,  nationality  is  a  virtue. 
For  what  else  is  the  "  Memory  of  Burns,"  but  the  memory  of 
all  that  dignifies  and  adorns  the  region  that  gave  him  birth  ? 
Not  till  that  region  is  shorn  of  all  its  beams — its  honesty,  its 
independence,  its  moral  worth,  its  genius,  and  its  piety,  will  the 
name  of  Burns 

"  Die  on  her  ear,  a  faint  unheeded  sound." 

But  it  has  an  immortal  life  in  the  hearts  of  young  and  old, 
whether  sitting  at  gloaming  by  the  ingle-side,  or  on  the  stone 
seat  in  the  open  air,  as  tlie  sun  is  going  down,  or  walking  among 
the  summer  mists  on  the  mountain,  or  the  blinding  winter  snows. 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


In  the  life  of  the  poor  there  is  an  unchanging  and  a  preserving 
spirit.  The  great  elementary  feelings  of  human  nature  there 
disdain  fluctuating  fashions  ;  there  pain  and  ])leasure  are  alike 
permanent  in  their  outward  shews  as  in  their  inward  emotions; 
there  the  language  of  passion  never  grows  obsolete;  and  at  the 
same  passage  you  hear  the  child  sobbing  at  the  knee  of  her 
grandame  wliose  old  eyes  are  somewhat  dimmer  thaVi  usual 
with  a  haze  that  seems  almost  to  be  of  tears.  Therefore,  the. 
poetry  of  Burns  will  continue  to  charm,  as  long  as  Nith 
flows.  Criffel  is  green,  and  the  bonny  blue  of  the  sky  of  Scot- 
land meets  with  that  in  the  eyes  of  her  maidens,  as  tliey  walk 
up  and  down  her  hills  silent  or  singing  to  kirk  or  market. 

Let  us  picture  to  ourselves  the  Household  in  \vhich  Burns 
grew  up  to  manhood,  shifting  its  place  without  much  changing 
its  condition,  from  first  to  last  always  fighting  against  fortune, 
experiencing  the  evil  and  the  good  of  poverty,  and  in  the  sight 
of  men  obscure.  His  father  may  be  said  to  have  been  an  elderly 
man  when  Robert  was  born,  for  he  was  within  a  few  years  of 
forty,  and  had  always  led  a  life  of  labor;  and  lalx)r  it  is  that 
wastes  away  the  stubbornest  strength — among  the  tillers  of  the 
earth  a  stern  ally  of  time.  "His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and 
bare"  at^n  age  when  many  a  forehead  hardly  shows  a  wrinkle, 
and  when  thick  locks  cluster  darkly  round  the  temples  of  easy 
living  men.  The  sire  who  "turns  o'er  wi'  patriarchal  pride  the 
big  Ha-Bible,"  is  indeed  well-stricken  in  years,  but  he  is  not  an 
old  man,  for  .   . 

"  The  expectant  wee  things  toddlin',  stacher  tlirough 
\  To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and  glee  ; 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  boiinily  ; 
His  cle:in  hearth-stane,  his  tlniltie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Docs  a'  his  wcarv  carking  cares  beguile, 
And  makes  him  iiuitc  I'orget  liis  labor  and  his  toil." 

That    picture.   Burns,    as   all   the    world    knows,  drew  from    his 
fiilhor.      Ho  was  himself,  in  imagination,  again  one  of  the  "  wee 
things"  that  run  to  meet  him;   and  ".the  priest-like  father"  had 
long  worn  that  aspect  before  tiie  poet's  eyes,  though  he  died  be-, 
fore  he   was  threescore.     "I   have  always  considered  William 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


BurneSi"  sa}s  the  siniple-rninded,  tender-hearted  Murdoch,  "as 
by  far  the  best  of  the  human  race  that  ever  I  liad  the  pleasure 
of  .being  acquahiled  with,  and  many  a  worthy  character  I  have 
known.  He  was  a  tender  and  airectionate  father;  lie  took  plea- 
sure in  leading  his  children  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  not  in  drivirig 
them,  as  some  people  do,  to  the  performance  of  duties  to  which 
they  themselves  are  averse.  He  .took  care  to  find  fault  very 
seldom ;  and,  therefore,  when  he  did  rebuke,  he  was  listened  to 
with  a  kind  of  reverential  awe.  I  must  not  pretend  to  give  you' 
a  description  of  all  the  manly  qualities,  the  rational  and  Chris- 
tian virtues,  of  the  venerable  William  Burncs.  I  shall  only 
add  that  he  practised  every  known  duty,  and  avoided  everything 
that  was  criminal ;  or,  in  the  apostle's  words,  '  herein  did  he 
exercise  himself,  in  living  a  life  void  of  offence  towards  God 
and  towards  man.'  Although'  I  cannot  do  justice  to  the  char- 
acter of  this  worthy  man,  yet  you  will  ])erceive,  from  these 
few  particulars,  what  kind  of  a  person  had  the  principal  part  in 
the  education  of  the  poet."  Burns  was  as  happy  in  a  mother, 
whom,  in  countenance,  it  is  said  he  resembled  ;  and  as  sons  and 
daughters  were  born,  we  think  of  the  "  auld  clay  biggin  '"'  more 
and  more  alive  with  cheerfulness  and  peace. 
/His  childhood,  then,  was  a  happy  one,  secured  from  all  evil 
/influences  and  open  to  all  good,  in  the  guardianship  of  religious 
parental  love.  Not  a  boy  in  Scotland  had  a  better  education. 
For  a  few  months,  when  in  his  sixth  year,  he  was  at  a  small 
school  at  Alloway  Miln,  about  a  mile  from  the  house  in  which 
he  was  born ;  and  for  two  years  after  under  the  tuition  of  good 
Jghn  Murdoch,  a  young  scholar  whom  William  Burnes  and  four 
or  five  neighbors  engaged  to  supply  the  place  of  the  school- 
master, who  had  been  removed  to  another  situation,  lodging  him 
as  is  still  the  custom  in  some  country  places,  by  turns  in  their 
own  houses.  •'  The  earliest  composition  I  recollect  taking 
pleasure  in,  was  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a  hymn  of  Addison's, 
beginning  ^Hoic  are  thy  servants  bicss'd,  O  Lord!'  I  particu- 
larly remember  one  half  stanza  which  was  music  to  my  boy'sh 
car, 

•  For  tliougli  on  dreadful  wliirls  we  hang, 
High  on  the  broken  wave  ' 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


I  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Collection,  one  of  my 
school-books.  The  two  first  books  1  ever  read  in  print,  and 
wliich  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  any  two  books  1  ever  read 
since,  were  the  Life  of  Hannihal,  and  the  History  of  Sir  WilUam 
Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my'young  ideas  such  a  turn  that  1 
used  to  strut  in  raptures  up  and  down  after  the  recruiting  drum 
and  bagpipe,  and  wished  myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier; 
while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured  a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice 
into  my  veins;  which  will  boil  along  there  till  the  floodgates  of 
life  shut  in  eternal  rest."  And  speaking  of  the  same  period  and 
books  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  he  says,  "  For  several  of  my  earlier  years 
I  had  few  other  authors;  and  many  a  solitary  hour  have  I  stole 
out,  after  the  laborious  vocations  of  the  day,  to  shed  a  tear  over 
their  glorious  but  unfortunate  stories.  In  these  boyish  days,  I 
remember,  in  particular,  being  struck  with  that  part  of  Wal- 
lace's story,  where  these  lines  occur — 

'  Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  late, 
To  make  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat.' 

I  chose  a  fme  summer  Sunday,  the  only  day  my  line  of  life 
allowed,  and  walked  half  a  dozen  miles  to  pay  my  respects  to 
the  Leglen  wood,  with  as  much  devout  entliusiasm  as  ever  pil- 
grim did  to  Loretto ;  and  explored  every  den  and  dell  where  I 
could  suppose  my  heroic  countryman  to  have  lodged."'  Murdoch 
continued  his  instructions  u'htil  the  family  had  been  about  two 
years  at  Mount  Oliphant,  and  there  being  no  school  near  us, 
says  Gilbert  Burns,  and  our  services  being  already  useful  on  the 
farm,  "  my  father  undertook  to  teach  us  arithmetic  on  the  winter 
nights  by  candle-light;  and  in  th.is  way  my  two  elder  sisters 
received  all  the  education  they  ever  had."  Robert  was  then  in 
his  ninth  year,  and  had  owed  much,  he  tells  us,  to  "  an  old 
woman  who  resided  in  the  family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance, 
credulity,  and  superstition.  Sh6  had,  1  suppose,  the  largest 
collection  in  the  country  of  talcs  and  songs  concerning  devils, 
ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witchies,  warlocks,  spunkios,  kelpirs, 
elf-candles,  dead  lights,  wraiths,  apparition.s,  cantrips,  giants 
and  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.  This  cul- 
tivated the  latent  seeds  of  poetry ;  but  had  so  strong  an  eflTect 


CHARACTER  OF   BURNS. 


on  my  imagination,  that  to  this  liour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles, 
I  sometimes  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  suspicious  places ;  and 
thou<'li  nobody  can  be  more  sceptical  than  I  am  in  such  matters, 
yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle 
terrors." 

We  said,  that  not  a  boy  in  Scotland  had  a  better  education 
than  Robert  Burns,  and  we  do  not  doubt  that  you  will  agree 
with  us;  forj'in  addition  to  all  that  may  be  contained  in  those 
sources  of  useful  and  entertaining  knowledge,  he  had  been 
taught  to  read,  not  only  in  the  Spelling  Book,  and  Fisher^s 
EnsJish  Grammar,  and  The  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  Addison's 
Hymns,  and  Titus  Andronicus  (though  on  Lavinia's  entrance 
"  with  her  hands  cut  off,  and  her  tongue  cut  out,"  he  threatened 
to  burn  the  book)  ;  but  in  the  New  Testament  and  the  Bible, 
and  all  this  in  his  father's  house,  or  in  the  houses  of  the  neigh- 
bors ;  happy  as  the  day  was  long,  or  the  night,  and  in  the  midst 
of  happiness ;  yet  even  then,  sometimes  saddened,  no  doubt,  to 
see  something  more  than  solemnity  or  aw  fulness  on  his  father's 
face,  that  was  always  turned  kindly  towards  the  children,  but 
seldom  wore  a  smile. 

Wordsworth  had  these  memorials  in  his  mind  when  he  was 
conceiving  the  boyhood  of  the  Pedlar  in  his  great  poem,  the 
Excursion. 

"  But  eagerly  he  read  and  read  again, 
Whate'er  the  minister's  old  shelf  supplied  : 
The  life  and  death  of  martyrs,  who  sustained 
With  will  inflexible,  those  fearful  pangs 
Triumphantly  displayed  in  records  left 
Of  persecution,  and  the  covenant,  times 
Whose  echo  rings  through  Scotland  to  this  hour; 
And  there,  by  lucky  hap,  had  been  preserved 
A  straggling  volume,  torn  ai^l  incomplete. 
That  left  half-told  the  preternatural  tale, 
Romance  of  giants,  chronicle  of  fiends, 
Profuse  in  garniture  oil  wooden  cuts 
Strange  and  uncouth  ;  dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-knee'd,  sliarp-olbowed,  and  lean-ancled  too, 
With  long  and  ghastly  shanks— forms  which  once  seen 
Could  never  be  forgotten.     In  his  heart 
Where  fear  sate  thus,  a  cherished  visitant. 
Was  wanting  yet  the  pure  delight  of  love 


10  THE  GENIUS  AND 


By  sound  diffused,  or  by  the  breathing  air. 

Or  by  the  sileat  looks  of  happy  things. 

Or  flowing  from  the  universal  face 

Of  earth  and  sky.     But  he  had  felt  the  power 

Of  nature,  and  already  was  prepared, 

By  his  intense  conceptions,  to  receive 

Deeply  the  lesson  deep  of  love,  w)iich  he 

Whom  nature,  by  whatever  means,  has  taught 

To  feel  intensely,  cannot  but  receive.  . 

Such  was  the  boy. 

Such  was  the  boy ;  but  his  studies  had  now  to  be  pursued  by 
fits  and  snatches,  and,  therefore,  the  more  eagerly  and  earnestly, 
during  the  intervals  or  at  the  close  of  labor,  that  before  his  thir- 
teenth year  had  become  constant  and  severe.  "  The  cheerless 
gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley-slave  !  " 
These  are  his  own  memorable  words,  and  they  spoke  the  truth. 
"  ^or  nothing  could  be  more  retired,"  says  Gilbert,  "  than  our 
general  manner  of  living  at  Mount  Oliphant ;  we  scarcely  saw 
any  but  members  of  our  own  family.  There  were  no  boys  of 
our  own  age,  or  near  it,  in  the  neighborhood."  They  all  worked 
hard  from  morning  to  night,  and  Robert  hardest  of  them  all.  At 
fifteen  he  was  the  principal  laborer  on  the  farm,  and  relieved  his 
fathe.r  from  holding  the.plough.  Two  years  before  he  had  as- 
sisted in  thrashing  the  crop  of  corn.  The  two  noble  brothers 
saw  with  anguish  the  old  man  breaking  down  before  their  eyes; 
nevertheless  assuredly,  though  they  knew  it  not,  they  were  the 
happiest  boys  "the  evening  sun  went  down  upon."  "True," 
as  Gilbert  tells  us,  "I  doubt  not  but  the  hard  labor  and  sorrow 
of  this  period  of  his  life  was  in  a  great  measure  the  cause  of 
that  depression -of  spirits  with  which  Robert  was  so  often  afflicted 
tiirouo-h  his  whole  life  afterwards.  At  this  time  he  was  almost 
constantly  afflicted  in  the  eveiyngs  with  a  dull  head-ache,  which 
at  a  future  period  of  his  life  was  exchanged  for  a  palpitation  of 
the  heart,  and  a  threatening  of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his 
bed  in  the  night-time."  Nevertheless,  assuredly  both  boys 
were  happy,  and  Robert  the  happior  of  the  two ;  for  if  he  had 
not  been  so,  why  did  he  not  go  to  sea?  Because  he  loved  his 
parents  too  well  to  be  able  to  leave  them,  arid  because,  too,  it  was 
his  duty  to  stay  by  them,  were  he  to  drop  down  at  midnight  in 


CHARACTER   OF  BURNS.  U 

the  barn  and  die  with  tho  flail  in  iiis  hand.  Bui  if  love  and  duty 
cannot  malie  a  boy  happy,  what  can  ?  Passion,  genius,  a  teem- 
ing brain,  a  palpitating  heart,  and  a  soul  of  fire.  These  too 
were  his,  and  idle  would  have  been  her  tears,  had  Pity  wept  for 
yourig  Robert  Burns. 

Was  he  not  hun<frv  for  knowledge  from  a  child  ?  During 
these  very  years  he  was  devouring  it;  and  soon  the  dawn  grew 
day.  "  My  father,"  says  Gilbert,  "  was  for  some  time  the  only 
companion  we  had.  He  conversed  familiarly  on  all  subjects 
with  us,  as  if  we  had  been  men  ;  and  was  at  ^reat  pains,  while 
we  accompanied  him  in  the  labors  of  the  farm,  to  lead  the  con- 
versation to  such  subjects  as  might  tend  to  increase  our  know, 
ledge,  or  confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits^.  He  borrowed  Salmon's 
Geographical  Grammar  for  us,  and  endeavored  to  make  us* ac- 
quainted with  tiie  situation  and  history  of  the  dillerent  countries 
in  the  world  :  while  from  a  book  society  in  Ayr,  he  procured  for 
us  the  reading  of  Durham's  Physico  and  Astro  Theology,  and 
Ray's  Wisdom  of  God  in  the  Creation.  Robert  read'  all  these 
books  with  an  avidity  and  industry  scarcely  to  be  equalled.  My 
father  had  been  a  subscriber  to  Stackhouse's  History  of  the 
Bible.  From  tliis  Robert  collected  a  competent  knowledge  of 
ancietit  history ;  for  no  hook  was  so  voluminous  as  to  slacken  his 
industry,  or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp  his  researches.^'  He  kept 
reading  too  at  the  Spectator,  Pope  and  Pope's  Homer,  some  plays 
of  Shakspearc,  Boyle's  Lectures,  Locke  on  the  [luman  Under- 
standing, Hervey's  Meditations,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine  of 
Original  Sin,  the  works  of  Allan  Ramsay  and  Smollet,  and  A 
Collection  of  Songs.  "  That  volume  was  my  Vade  Mecum. 
I  pored  over  them,  during  my  work,  or  walking  to  labor,  song 
by  song,  verse  by  verse,  carefully  noticing  the  true  tender  or 
sublime  from  affectation  or  fustian ;  and  I  am  convinced  I  owe 
to  this  practice  most  of  my  critic-craft,  such  as  it  is." 

So  much  for  book-knowledge  ;  but  what  of  the  kind  that  is 
born  within  every  boy's  own  bosom,  and  grows  there  till  ofien 
that  bosom  feels  as  if  it  would  burst?  To  Mr.  Murdoch,  Gilbert 
always  appeared  to  possess  a  more  lively  imagination,  and  to  be 
more  of  a  wit  than  Robert.  Yet  imagination  or  wit  he  had  none. 
His  face  said,  "Mirth,  with   thee  I  mean  to  live;"  yet  he  was 

2 


12  THE  GENIUS  AND 


through  life  sedate.  Robert  himself  says  that  in  childhood  he 
was  by  no  means  a  favorite  with  anybody — but  he  must  have 
been  mistaken  ;  and  "the  stubborn  sturdy  something  in  his  dis- 
position "  hindered  him  from  seeing  how  much  he  was  loved. 
The  tutor  tells  us  he  had  no  ear  for  music,  and  could  n«t  be 
taught  a  psalm  tune  !  Nobody  could  have  supposed  that  he 
was  ever  to  be  a  poet!  But  nobody  knew  anything  about  him — 
nor  did  lie  know  much  about  himself;  till  Nature,  who  had  long 
kept,  chose  to  reveal,  her  own  secret. 

"  You  know  our  country  custom  of  coupling  a  man  and  woman 
together  as  partners  in  the  labor  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth 
autumn  my  partner  was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year  younger 
than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of 
doin'g  her  justice  in  that  language  ;  she  was  a  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie 
lass.  In  short,  she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated 
me  in  that  delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappoint- 
ment, gin-horse  prudence,  and  bookworm  philosophy,  I  hold  to 
be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our  sweetest  blessing  here  below. 
How  she  caught  the  contagion  I  could  not  tell :  you  medical 
people  talk  much  of  infection  from  breathing  the  same  air,  the 
touch,  &c.,  but  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved  her.  Indeed  I  did 
not  know  myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  wiih  her, 
when  returning  in  the  evening  from  our  labors  ;  why  the  tones  of 
her  voice  made  my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  Eolian  harp  ;  and 
particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  such  a  furious  ratan  when  I 
looked  and  fingered  over  her  little  hand,  to  pick  out  *.he  cruel 
nettle-stings  and  thistles.  Among  her  other  love-inspiriiig  quali- 
ties,  she  sang  sweetly ;  and  it  was  a  favorite  reel  to  which  I 
attempted  giving  an  embodied  veliicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so 
presumptuous  as  to  imagine  that  I  could  make  verses  like  printed 
ones,  composed  by  men  who  had  Greek  and  Latin  ;  but  my  girl 
sang  a  song  which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a  small  country 
laird's  sbn,  on  one  of  his  father's  maids  with  whom  he  was  in 
love  ;  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as 
he ;  for,  excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep,  and  cast  peats, 
his  father  living  on  the  moorlands,  he  had  no  more  scholar  craft 
than  myself.     Thus  witu  me  began  Love  and  Poetry." 

And  during  those  seven  years,  when  his  life  was  "the  cheer- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  13 

less  gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley- 
slave,"'  thmk  ye  not  that  the  boy  Poet  was  happy,  merely  because 
he  had  the  blue  sky  over  his  head,  and  the  green  earth  beneath 
his  feet  ?  He  who  ere  long  invested  the  most  common  of  all 
the  wild-flowers  of  the  earth  with  immortal  beauty  to  all  eyes, 
far  beyond  that  of  the  rarest,  till  a  tear  as  of  pity  might  fall 
down  manly  cheeks  on  the  dew-drop  nature  gathers  on  its 
"snawie  bosom,  sunward  spread!" 

"  Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  houf  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amans:  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

'  '  Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east." 

Thus  far  the  life  of  this  wonderful  being  is  blameless — thus 
far  it  is  a  life  of  virtue.  Let  each  season,  with  him  and  with 
all  men,  have  its  due  meed  of  love  and  praise — and,  therefore, 
let  us  all  delight  to  declare  how  beautiful  was  the  Spring !  And 
was  there  in  all  those  bright  and  bold  blossoms  a  fallacious 
promise  ?  Certainly  not  of  the  fruits  of  genius;  for  these  far 
surpassed  what  the  most  hopeful  could  have  predicted  of  the 
full-grown  tree.  But  did  the  character  of  tlie  man  belie  that  of 
the  boy  ?  Was  it  manifested  at  last,  either  that  the  moral  being 
had  undergone  some  fatal  change  reaching  to  the  core,  or  that 
it  had  been  from  the  first  hollow,  and  that  these  noble-seeming 
virtues  had  been  delusions  all  ? 

The  age  of  puberty  has  passed  with  its  burning  but  blameless 
loves,  and  Robert  Burns  is  now  a  man.  Other  seven  years  of 
the  same  kind  of  life  as  at  Mount  Oliphant,  he  enjoys  and  siiflers 
at  Lochlea.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  iiis  boyhood  should  have 
been  so  heavily  burthened  ;  but  we  look  with  no  such  thoughts 
on  his  manhood,  for  his  strength  is  knit,  and  the  sinews  of  soul 


14  .  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  body  are  equal  to  their  work.  He  still  lives  in  his  father's 
house,  and  he  still  upholds  it;  he  still  reverences  his  father's 
eyes  that  are  upon  him  ;  and  he  is  still  a  dutiful  son — certainly 
not  a  prodigal.  "During  the  whole  of  the  time  we  lived  at 
Lochlea  with  my  father,  he  allowed  my  brother  and  me  such 
wages  for  our  labor  as  he  gave  to  other  laborers,  as  a  part  of 
which,  every  article  of  our  clothing  manufactured  in  the  family 
was  regularly  accounted  for.  When  my  father's  affairs  were 
near  a  crisis,  Robert  and  I  took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  consisting 
of  118  acres,  at  £90  per  annum,  as  an  asylum  for  the  family 
in  case  of  the  worst.  It  was  stocked  by  the  property  and  indi- 
vidual savings  of  the  whole  family,  and  was  a  joint  concern 
among  us.  Every  member  of  the  family  was  allowed  ordinary 
wages  for  the  labor  he  performed  on  the  farm.  My  brother's 
allowance  and  mine,  was  £7  per  annum  eacii,  and  during  the 
whole  time  this  family  concern  lasted,  which  was  four  years,  as 
well  as  during  the  preceding  period  at  Lochlea,  his  expenses 
never  in  one  year  exceeded  his  slender  income.  As  I  was  in- 
trusted with  the  keeping  of  the  family  accounts,  it  is  not  possible 
that  there  can  be  any  fallacy  in  this  statement,  in  my  brother's 
favor.  His  temperance  and  frugality  were  everything  that  could 
he  wished.^'  Durins  his  residence  for  six  months  in  Irvine,  in- 
deed,  where  he  wrought  at  the  business  of  a  flax-dresser,  with 
the  view  of  adopting  that  trade,  that  he  might  get  settled  in  lii'e, 
paid  a  shilling  a  week  for  his  lodging,  and  fed  on  meal  and 
water,  with  some  wild  boon-companions  he  occasionally  lived 
rather  free.  No  doubt  he  sometimes  tasted  the  "Scotch  drink,'" 
of  whicfi  he  ere  long  sung  the  praises  ;  but  even  then,  his  inspi- 
ration  was  from  "a  well-head  undefded."  He  was  as  sober  a 
man  as  his  brother  Gilbert  Himself,  who  says,  "  I  do  not  recol- 
lect, during  th'fese  seven  years,  to  have  ever  seen  him  intoxi- 
cated, nor  was  he  at  all  given  fo  drinking."  We  have  seen 
what  were  his  virtues — for  his  vices,  where  must  we  look  ? 

During  all  these  seven  years,  the  most  dangerous  in  the  life 
of  every  one,  that  of  Robert  Burns  was  singularly  free  from 
the  sin  to  whicli  nature  is  prone  ;  nor  haJ  hn  drunk  of  that 
guilty  cup  of  the  intoxication  of  the  passions,  that  bewilders  the 
virtue,  and  changes  their  wisdom  into  foolishness,  of  the  discreet- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  15 

est  of  the  children  of  men.  l^ut  drink  of  it  at  last  he  did  ;  and 
like  other  sinners  seemed  sometimes  even  to  glory  in  his  shame. 
But  remor.se  puts  on  looks,  and  utters  words,  that  being  inter- 
preted, have  far  other  meanings ;  there  may  be  reckle.s.sness 
without  obduracy;  and  though  the  keenest  anguish  of  self- 
reproach  be  no  proof  of  penitence,  it  is  a  preparation  for  it  in 
nature — a  change  of  heart  can  be  effected  only  by  religion. 
How  wisely  he  addresses  his  friend  ! 

"  The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel  placed  love, 

Luxuriously  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it 
I  wave  the  quantum  of  the  sin. 

The  hazard  o'  concealing ; 
But  oh  .'it  hardens  a'  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  !  " 

It  was  before  any  such  petrifaction  of  feeling  had  to  be  de- 
plored  by  Robert  Burns  that  he  loved  Mary  Campbell,  his 
"  Highland  Mary,"  with  as  pure  a  passion  as  ever  possessed 
young  poet's  heart ;  nor  is  there  so  sweet  and  sad  a  passage  re- 
corded in  the  life  of  any  other  one  of  all  the  sons  of  song. 
Many  such  partings  there  have  been  between  us  poor  beings — 
blind  at  all  times,  and  often  blindest  in  our  bliss — but  all  gone  to 
oblivion.  But  that  hour  can  never  die — that  scene  will  live  for 
ever.  Immortal  the  two  shadows  standing  there,  holdinjr  to- 
gether  the  Bible — a  little  rivulet  flowing  between — in  which,  as 
in  consecrated  water,  they  have  dipt  their  hands,  water  not 
purer  than,  at  that  moment,  their  united  hearts. 

There  are  few  of  his  songs  more  beautiful,  and  none  more 
impassioned  than 

"  Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around,     • 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  druinlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfaulds  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary." 

2« 


16  THE  GENIUS  AND 


But  what  are  lines  like  these  to  his  "  Address  to  Mary  in  Hea- 
ven I"  It  was  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  he  heard 
of  her  death — that  to  him  was  the  day  on  which  she  died.  He 
did  not  keep  it  as  a  day  of  mourning — for  he  was  happy  in  as 
good  a  wife  as  ever  man  had,  and  cheerfully  went  about  the 
work  of  his  farm.  But  towards  the  darkening  "  he  appeared  to 
grow  very' sad  about  something,"  and  wandered  out  of  doors 
into  the  barn-yard,  where  his  Jean  found  him  lying  on  some 
straw  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  shining  star  "  like  another 
moon." 

"  Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  uslier'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast !" 

He  wrote  them  all  down  just  as  they  now  are,  in  their  immortal 
beauty,  and  gave  them  to  Ris  wife..  Jealousy  may  be  felt  even 
of  the  dead.  But  such  sorrow  as  this  the  more  endeared  her 
husband  to  her  heart — a  heart  ever  faithful — and  at  tim^s  when 
she  needed  to  practise  that  hardest  of  all  virtues  in  a  wife — for- 
giving ;  but  here  all  he  desired  was  her  sympathy — and  lie 
found  it  in  some  natural  tears. 

"William  Burnes  was  now — so  writes  Robert  to  one  of  his 
cousins — "  in  his  own  opinion,  and  indeed  in  almost  everybody's 
else,  in  a  dying  condition," — far  gone  in  a  consumption,  as  it 
was  called ;  but.  dying,  though  not  sixty,  of  old  age  at  last. 
His  lot  in  this  life  was  in  many  things  a  hard  one,  but  his  bless- 
ings had  been  great,  and  his  end  was  peace.  All  his  children 
had  been  dutiful  to  their  parents,  and  to  their  care  he  confided 
their  mother.  If  he  knew  of  Robert's  transgressions  in  one 
year,  he  likewise  knew  of  his  obedience  through  many  ;  nor 
feared  that  he  would  strive  to  the  utmost  to  shelter  his  mother  in 
the  storm.  Robert  writes,  "  On  the  13th  current  (Fl-I).,  1784)  I 
lost  the  best  of  fathers.  Though  to  be  sure,  we  have  had  long 
warning  of  the  impending  stroke,  still  the   feelings  of  nature 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  17 

claim  their  part ;  and  I  cannot  recollect  the  tender  endearments 
and  parental  lessons  of  tlie  best  of  friends,  and  the  ablest  of 
instructors,  without  feeling  what  perhaps  the  calmer  dictates  of 
j-eason  would  partly  condemn.  I  hope  my  father's  friends  in 
vour  country  will  not  let  their  connection  in  this  place  die  wiiii 
him.  For  my  part  t  shall  ever  with  pleasure,  with  pride, 
acknowledge  my  connection  with  those  who  were  allied,  by  the 
ties  of  blood  and  friendship,  to  a  man  whose  memory  I  will  ever 
honor  and  revere.'"'     And  now  the  family  remove  to   Mossgiel, 

"  A  virtuous  household  but  exceeding  poor." 

How  fared  Burns  during  the  next  two  years,  as  a  peasant? 
How  fared  he  as  a  poet  ?  As  a  peasant,  poorly  and  hardly — as 
a  poet,  greatly  and  gloriously.  How  fared  he  as  a  man  ?  Read 
his  confessions.  Mossgiel  was  the  coldest  of  all  the  soils  on 
which  the  family  had  slaved  and  stcirved — starved  is  too  strong 
a  word — and,  in  spite  of  its  ingratitude,  its  fields  are  hallowed 
ground.  Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  have  come  afar  to 
look  on  them ;  and  Wordsworth's  self  has  "  gazed  himself 
away  "  on  the  pathetic  prospect. 

"  '  There,'  said  a  stripling:,  pointing  with  much  pride, 
Towards  a  low  roof,  with  green  trees  half-concealed, 
'  Is  Mossgiel  farm  ;  and  that's  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  plough'd  up  the  Daisy.'     Far  and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  peaks  of  Arran  rose  ; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath  the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone. 
Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away  ;  li'ss  happy  than  the  one 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love." 

Peasant — Poet — Man — is,  indeed,  an  idle  distinction.  Burns 
is  sitting  alone  in  the  Auld  Clay-Biggin,  for  it  has  its  one  re- 
tired room  ;  and  as  he  says,  "  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit  " — 
all  he  had  made  by  rhyme  !     He  is  tlie  picture  of  a  desponding 


18  THE  GENIUS  AND 


man^  steeped  to  the  lips  in  poverty  of  his  own  bringing  on,  and 
with  a  spirit  vainly  divided  between  hard  realities,  and  high 
hopes  beyond  his  reach,  resolving  at  last  to  forswear  all  delu- 
sive dreams,  and  submit  to  an  ignoble  lot.  When  at  once,  out 
of  the  gloom  arises  a  glory,  elFused  into  form  by  his  own  genius 
creative  according  to  his  soul's  desire,  and  conscious  of  its  great- 
ness, despite  of  despair.  A  thousand  times  before  now  had  he 
been  so  disquieted  and  found  no  comfort.  But  the  hour  had 
come  of  self-revelation,  and  he  knew  that  on  earth  his  name 
was  to  live  for  ever. 

"  All  hail !  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 
In  me  thy  native  muse  regard  ! 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard,   . 

Thus  poorly  low  ! 
«  I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

As  we  bestow. 

"  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
*    Has  many  a  light,  aerial  band. 

Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command. 

Harmoniously, 
As  arts  or  arms  they  understand. 

Their  labors  ply 


"  Of  those  am  I — Coila  my  name  ; 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim. 
Where  once  the  Campbells,  chief  of  fame. 

Held  ruling  power : 
I  mark'd  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

"With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze 
Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 
Thy  rudely  caroU'd  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 
Fir'd  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 


I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Deligl)ted  witli  tlie  dashing  roar; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  19 

I  saw  grim  nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye 

"  Or,  when  the  deep  green-mantl'd  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  every  flow'ret's  birth. 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  ev'ry  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  gen'ral  mirth 

With  boundless  love 

"  When  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Call'd  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk. 
To  vent  thv  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing  strong,     • 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along,  . 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue 

Th'  adored  A''aTne, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

"I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play. 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure's  devious  way. 
Misled  by  fancy's  meteor  ray. 

By  passion  driven  , 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven. 


"  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan  ; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  man. 

With  soul  erect : 
And  trust  the  Universal  Plan 

"Will  all  protect. 

"  ^nd  wear  thou  this — she  solemn  said. 
And  bound  tlie  Holly  round  my  head: 
The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Did  rustling  play; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away." 


20  THE   GENIUS  AND 


"  To  reconcile  to  our  imagination  the  entrance  of  an  aerial 
being  into  a  mansion  of  tiiis  kind,"  says  the  excellent  Currie, 
"  required  the  powers  of  Burns  ;  he,  however,  succeeds."  Burns 
cared  not  at  that  time  for  our  imagination — not  he,  indeed — not 
•  a  straw  ;  nor  did  he  so  much  as  know  of  our  existence.  He 
knew  that  there  was  a  human  race  ;  and  he  believed  that  he  was 
born  to  be  a  great  power  among  them,  especially  all  over  his 
biloved  and  beloving -Scotland.  "All  hail!  my  own  inspired 
bard  !"  Tiiat  "  all  hail  !"'  he-dared  to  hear  from  supernatural 
lips,  but  not  till  his  spirit  had  long  been  gazing,  and  long  been 
listening  to  one  commissioned  by  the  "genius  of  the  land,",  to 
stand  a  Vision  before  her  chosen  poet -in  his  hut.  Reconcile  her 
entrance  to  our  imagination  !  Into  no  other  mansion  but  that 
"  Auld  Clay  Biggin,"  would  Coila  have  descended  from  the  sky. 

The  otitic  continues,  "To  the  painting  on  her  mantle,  on 
which  is  depicted  the  most  striking  scenery,  as  well  as  the  most 
distinguished  characters  of  his  native  country,  some  exception 
may  be  made.  The  mantle  of  Coila,  like  the  cup  of  Thyrsis 
(see  the  first  Idyllium  of  Theocritus),  and  the  shield  of  Achilles, 
is  too  much  crowded  with  figures,  and  some  of  the  objects  re- 
presented  upon  it  are  scarcely  admissible  according  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  design." 

We  advise  you  not  to  see  the  first  Idyllium  of  Theocritus. 
Perhaps  you  have  no  Greek.  Mr.  Chapman's  translation  is  as 
good  as  a  translation  can  well  be,  but  then  you  may  not  have  a 
copy  of  it  at  hand.  A  pretty  wooden  cup  it  is,  with  curled  ears 
and  ivy-twined  lips — embossed  thereon  the  figure  of  a  woman 
with  flowing  robes  and  a  Lydian  head-dress,  to  whom  two  angry 
men  are  making  love.  Hard  by,  a  stout  old  fisherman  on  a  rock 
is  in  the  act  of  throwing  his  net  into  the  sea  :  not  far  from  him 
is  a  vineyard,  where  a  boy  is  sitting  below  a  hedge  framing  a 
locust  trap  with  stalks  of  asphodel,  and  guarding  the  grapes 
from  a  couple  of  sly  foxes.  Thyrsis,  we  are  told  by  Theocritus, 
boutfht  it  from  a  Calydonian  Skipper  for  a  big  cheese-cake  and 
a  "oat.     We  must  not  meddle  with  the  shield  of  Achilles. 

Turn  we  then  to  the  "  Vision  "  of  Burns,  our  Scottish  Theo- 
critus, as  we  have  heard  him  classically  called,  and  judge  of 
Dr.  Currie's  sense  in  telling  us  to  see  the  cup  of  Thyrsis. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  21 


"  Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen ; 
Till  half  her  leg  was  scrimply  seen  ; 
And  such  a  leg  !  my  bonnie  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 

Nane  else  could  near  it." 

You  observe  Burns  knew  not  yet  who  stood  before  him — woman, 
or  angel,  or  fairy — but  the  Vision  reminded  him  of  her  whom 
best  he  loved. 

"  Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 
Were  twisted  graccfu'  round  her  brows  ; 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token." 

Some  Scottish  Muse — but  which  of  them  he  had  not  leisure  to 
conjecture,  so  lost  was  he  in  admiration  of  that  mystic  robe — 
"  that  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue."  As  he  continued  to  gaze 
on  her,  his  imagination  beheld  whatever  it  chose  to  behold.  The 
region  dearest  to  the  Poet's  heart  is  all  emblazoned  there — and 
there  too  its  .sages  and  its  heroes. 

"  Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast. 

With  surging  foam  : 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast. 

The  lordly  dome. 

"  Here,  Doon  pour'd  down  his  far-fetch'd  floods  ; 
There,  well-fed  Irvine  stately  thuds  : 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro'  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds. 

With  seeming  roar. 

"  Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread. 

An  ancient  borough  rear'd  her  head  ; 
Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read. 

She  boasts  a  race, 
To  ev'ry  nobler  virtue  bred. 

And  polish'd  grace 


22  .  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  By  stately  tovv'r  or  palace  fair, 
Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 
Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I  could  discern  ; 
Some  seemed  to  muse,  some  seem'd  to  dare. 

With  feature  stern. 

"  My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 
•     To  see  a  race  heroic  wheel. 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 

In  sturdy  blows  ; 
While  back  recoiling  seem'd  to  reel 
Their  suthorn  foes. 

"  His  Country's  Saviour,  mark  him  well ! 
Bold  Richardton's  heroic  swell : 
The  chief  on  Sark  who  glorious  fell, 

In  high  command ; 
And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
His  native  land. 

"  There,  where  a  scepter'd  Pictish  shade, 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  portray'd 

In  colors  strong ; 
Bold,  ?oldier-featur'd,  undismayed 

They  strode  along." 

What  have  become  of  "  llie  laws  of  design  ?"  But  would 
good  Dr.  Carrie  have  dried  up  the  sea  !  How  many  yards,  will 
anybody  tell  us,  were  in  that  green  mantle  ?  And  what  a  pat- 
tern !  Thomas  Campbell  knew  better  what  liberty  is  allowed 
by  nature  to  Imagination  in  iier  inspired  dreams.  In  his  noble 
Stanzas  to  the  memory  of  Burns,  he  says,  in  allusion  to  "  The 
Vision," 

"  Him»  in  his  clay-built  cot  the  Muse 
Entranced,  and  showed  him  all  the  forms 

Of  fairy  light  and  wizard  gloom, 
That  only  gifted  poet  views, — 

The  genii  of  the  floods  and  storms. 
And  martial  shades  from  glory's  tomb." 

The  Fata  Morgana  are  obedient  to  the  laws  of  perspective, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  2.3 

and  of  optics  in  general  ;  but  they  belong  to  the  material  ele- 
ments of  nature  ;  tliis  is  a  spiritual  creation,  and  Burns  is  its 
maker.  It  is  far  from  perfect,  either  in  design  or  execution ; 
but  perfection  is  found  nowhere  here  below,  except  in  Shak- 
speare  ;  and,  if  the  Vision  o,frend  you,  we  fear  your  happiness 
will  not  be  all  you  could  desire  it  even  in  the  Tempest  or  tlie 
Midsummer's  Night's  Dream. 

•  How  full  of  fine  poetry  are  one  and  all  of  his  Epistles  to  his 
friends  Sillar,  Lapraik,  Simpson,  Smith, — worthy  men  one  and 
all,  and  among  them  much  mother-wit  almost  as  good  as  genius, 
and  thought  to  be  genius  by  Burns,  who  in  the  generous  enthu- 
siasm of  his  nature  exaggerated  the  mental  gifts  of  everybody 
he  loved,  and  conceived*  their  characters  to  be  "accordant  to 
his  soul's  desire."  His  "  Epistle  to  Davie  "  was  among  the 
very  earliest  of  his  productions,  and  Gilbert's  favorable  opinion 
of  it  suffifested  to  him  the  first  idea  of  becoming  an  author. 
"It  was,  I  think,  in  summer  1784,  when  in  the  interval  of  hard 
labor,  he  and  I  were  reading  in  the  garden  (kail-yard),  that  he 
repeated  to  me  the  principal  parts  of  this  Epistle."  It  breathes 
a  noble  spirit  of  independence,  and  of  proud  contentment  dally- 
ing with  tlie  hardships  of  its  lot,  and  in  the  power  of  manhood 
regarding  the  riches  that  are  out  of  its  reach,  without  a  particle 
of  envy,  and  with  a  haughty  scorn.  True  he  says,  "I  hanker 
and  canker  to  see  their  cursed  pride ;"  but  he  immediately 
bursts  out  into  a  strain  that  gives  the  lie  to  his  own  words  • 

"  What  tho',  like  commoners  of  air. 
We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where. 

But  either  house  or  hall  ? 
Yet  nature's  charms,  the  hills  and  woods. 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 
,  Are  free  alike  to  all.  ' 

In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground. 

And  blackbirds  wljistle  clear, 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound. 
To  see  the  coming  year  : 
On  braes  when  we  please,  then. 

We'll  sit  an'  sowth  a  tune  ; 
Syne  rhyme  tilTt,  wee'l  time  till't, 
•  And  sing't  when  we  hae  done. 

3 


24  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank ; 
It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank. 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 
It's  no  in  makin'  muckle  mair; 
It's  no  in  books,  it's  no  in  lear. 

To  make  us  truly  blest ; 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great. 
But  never  can  be  blest ; 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures,  ' 

Could  make  us  happy  lang  ; 
The  heart  ay's  the  part  ay. 

That  makes  us  ri";ht  or  wrana;." 


'o* 


Through  all  these  Epistles  we  hear  Iiim  exulting  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  genius,  and  pouring  out  his  anticipations  in 
verses  so  full  offeree  and  fire,  that  of  themselves  they  privilege 
him  to  declare  himself  a  Poet  after  Scotland's  own  lieart.  Not 
even  in  "  The  Vision"  does  he  kindle  into  brighter  transports, 
when  foreseeing  his  fame,  and  describing  the  fields  of  its  glory, 
than  in  his  Epistle  to  the  schoolmaster  of  Ochiltree  ;  for  all  his 
life  he  associated  with  schoolmasters — finding;  along  with  know- 
ledge,  talent,  and  integrity,  originalit}' and  strength  of  character 
prevalent  in  that  meritorious  and  ill-rewarded  class  of  men. 
What  can  be  finer  than  this  ? 

"  We'll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  an'  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi'  heather  bells. 
Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dens  and  dells. 

Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bare  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southern  billies. 

•'  At  Wallace'  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ! 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

•    By  Wallace'  side. 
Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat-shod. 
Or  glorious  dy'd. 

"  0,  sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  an'  woods,  . 

When  lintwhites  chaunt  amang  the  byds, 


* 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  25 

And  jinkin  hares;  in  amorous  whids. 

Their  loves  enjoy, 
While  thro'  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailful  cry  ! 

"  Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  for  mo 
When  winds  rave  thro'  the  naked  tree ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  grey ; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Dark'ning  the  day. 

•'  0  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 
Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms 

Wi'  life  an'  light. 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms. 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

"  The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her. 
Till  by  himseV  herlearn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander. 

An'  no  think  lang  ; 
Or  sweet  to  stray,  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  hcart-fclt  sang  !" 

It  has  been  thoughtlessly  said  that  Burns  had  no  very  deep 
love  of  nature,  and  tliat  he  lias  shown  no  very  great  power  as  a 
descriptive  poet.  The  few  lines  quoted  suffice  to  set  aside  that 
assertion  ;  but  it  is  true  that  his  love  of  nature  was  always 
linked  with  some  vehement  passion  or  some  sweet  affection  for 
living  creatures,  and  that  it  was-for  the  sake  of  the  humanity 
she  cherishes  in  her  bosom,  that  she  was  dear  to  him  as  his  own 
life-blood.  His  love  of  nature  by  being  thus  restricted  was  the 
more  intense.  Yet  there  are  not  wanting  passages  that  show 
how  exquisite  was  his  perception  of  her  beauties  even  when  un- 
associated  with  any  definite  emotion,  and  inspiring  only  that 
pleasure  which  we  imbibe  through  the  senses  into  our  unthink- 
ing  souls. 

"  Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays. 

As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
'  ^Vhyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't; 


26  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Whyles  glittered  to  the' nightly  rays, 

•Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Wliyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes,  » 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 
■    ^  Unseen  that  night." 

Such  pretty  passages  of  pure  description  are  rare,  and  the 
charm  of  tl)is  one  depends  on  its  sudden  sweet  intrusion  into  the 
very  midst  of  a  scene  of  noisy  merriment.  But  there  are 
many  passages  in  which  the  descriptive  power  is  put  forth  under 
the  influence  of  emotion  so  gentle  that  they  come  within  that 
kind  of  composition  in  which  it  has  been  thought  Burns  does  not 
excel.     As  for  example, 

"  Nae  mair  the  flower  on  fold  or  meadow  springs ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except  perhaps  the  Robin's  whistling  glee. 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang  tree ; 
Th(?  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days. 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noon-tide  blaze, 
While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the  rays." 

Seldom  setting  himself  to  describe  visual  objects,  but  when  he 
is  under  strong  emotion,  he  seems  to  have  taken  considerable 
pains  when  he  did,  to  produce  something  striking  ;  and  though 
he  never  fails  on  such  occasions  to  do  so,  yet  he  is  sometimes 
ambitious  overmuch,  and,  though  never  feeble,  becomes  bom- 
bastic,  as  in  his  lines  on  the  Fall  of  Fyers  : 

"  And  viewless  echo's  ear  astoiiislied  rends." 

In  tlie  "  Brigs  of  Ayr"  there  is  one  beautiful,  and  one  magnifi- 
cent passage  of  this  kind. 

"  All  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  briglit : 
Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danc'd  ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanc'd : 
They  footed  o'er  tlie  v\-,it'ry  glass  so  neat, 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
While  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung. 
And  soul-ennobling  Bards  heroic  ditties  sung." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  .  27 


He  then  breaks  oft  in  celebration  of  "  M'Lauchlan,  thairm-in- 
spiring  sage,"  tliat  is,  "  a  well-known  performer  of  Scottish 
music  on  the  violin,"  and  returns,  at  liis  leisure,  to  the  fairies! 

The  other  passage  which  we  have  called  magnificent  is  a  de- 
scription of  a  spate.  But  in  it,  it  is  true,  he  personates  the  Auld 
Brig,  and  is  inspired  by  wrath  and  contempt  of  the  New. 

"  Conceited  gowk  !  pulF'd  up  wi'  windy  pride  ! 
This  monie  a  year  Pve  stood  the  flood  an'  tide  ; 
And  tho'  wi'  crazy  eild  I'm  sair  forfairn, 
ril  be  a  Brig,  when  ye'rc  as  hapeless  cairn  ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  you  better, 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a' -day  rains, 
Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains; 
When  from  the  hills  whore  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil. 
Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 
Or  haunted  Carpal  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Arous'd  by  blust'ring  winds  an'  spotting  thowes. 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  sna-broo  rowes  ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams,  an'  mills,  an'  brigs,  a'  to  the  gate  ; 
And  from  Glenbuck,  down  to  the  Ratton-key, 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd,  tumbling  sea  ; 
Then  down  ye'll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies." 

Perhaps  we    have  dwelt  too  long  on  this  point;   but  the  truth 
is  that  Burns  would  have  utterly  despised   most  of  what  is  now 
I     dignified  with  the  name  of  poetry,  where  harmlessly  enough 

"  Pure  description  takes  the  place  of  sense  ;  " 

r 

but  far  worse,  where  the  agonizing  artist  intensifies  himself  into 
genuine  convulsions  at  the  shrine  ot  nature,  or  acts  the  epileptic 
to  extort  alms.  The  world  is  beginning  to  lose  patience  with 
[■  such  idolator.s,  and  insists  on  being  allowed  to  see  the  sun  set 
with  her  own  eyes,  and  with  her  own  ears  to  hear  the  sea.  Why, 
there  is  often  more  poetry  in  five  lines  of  Burns  than  any  fifty 
volumes  of  the  versifiers  who  have  had  the  audacity  to  criticise 
him — as  by  way  of  specimen — 

3» 


23  THE  GENIUS  AND 


'  When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bovv'r ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-dark'ning  thro'  tiie  flaky  show'r 

Or  whirling  drift : 


o 


"  Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd, 
Poor  labor  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd. 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wceeths  up-chock'd. 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd, 

Down  headlong  hurl." 

"Hallow^n"  is  now  almost  an  obsolete  word — and  the  live- 
liest of  all  festivals,  that  used  to  usher  in  the  winter  with  one 
long  night  of  mirthful  mockery  of  superstitious  fancies;  not  unat- 
tended with  stirrings  of  imaginative  fears  in  many  a  simple 
breast,  is  gone  with  many  other  customs  of  the  good  old  fmie, 
not  among  town- folks  only,  but  dwellers  in  rural  parishes  far 
withdrawn  from  the  hum  of  crowds,  where  all  such  rites  origi- 
nate and  latest  fall  into  desuetude.  The  present  wise  generation 
of  youngsters  can  care  little  or  nothing  about  a  poem  which 
used  to  drive  their  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  half-mad  with 
merriment  when  boys  and  girls,  gathered  in  a  circle  round  some 
choice  reciter,  who,  -though  perhaps  endowed  with  no  great 
memory  for  grammar,  had  half  of  Burns  by  heart.  Many  of 
them,  doubtless,  are  of  opinion  that  it  is  a  silly  allkir.  So  must 
think  the  more  aged  march-of-mind  men  who  have  outgrown  the 
whims  and  follies  of  their  ill-educated  yogth,  and  become  in- 
structors in  all  manner  of  wisdom.  In  practice  e.xtinct  to  elderly 
people  it  survives  in  poetry  ;  and  there  the  body  of  tlio  iiarmh  ss 
superstition,  in  its  very  form  and  pressure,  is  embalmed.  "  Hal- 
loween "  was  thought,  surely  you  all  know  that,  to  be  a  niglit 
"  when  witches,  devils,  and  other  mischief-making  bejngs, 
are  all  abroad  on  their  baneful  midnight  errands ;  particularly 
those  aerial  people,  the  fairies,  are  said  on  that  night  to  hold  a 
grand  anniversary."  So  writes  Burns  in  a  note;  but  in  the 
poem  evil  spirits  are  disarmed  of  all  their  terrors,  and  fear  is 
fun.  It  might  have  begun  well  enough,  and  nobody  would  have 
found  fault,  with 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  29 


"  Some  merry,  friendly,  kintra  folks, 
Together  did  convene, 
To  burn  their  nits,  an'  pou  their  stocks, 
An'  baud  their  Halloween 

'  Fu'  blythe  this  night;" 

but   Burns,   by   a    few   beautiful    introductory  lines,  brings  the 
festival  at  once  within  tlie  world  of  poe.try. 

"Upnn  that  ni«ht,  when  fairies  light, 
On  Cassilis  Dowuans  dance. 
Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze. 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance ; 
Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en. 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams ; 
There,  up  the  cove,  to  stray  an'  rove 
Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 

To  sport  that  night. 

"  Amang  the  bonnie  winding  banks. 
Where  Doon  rins,  wlmpling  clear, 
Where  Bruce  ance  rul'd  the  martial  ranks 
And  shook  his  Carrick  spear." 

Then  instantly  he  collects  the  company — the  business  of  tiie 
evening  is  set  a-going — each  stanza  has  its  new  actor  and  *its 
new  charm — the  transitions  are  as  quick  as  it  is  in  the  power  of 
winged  words  to  fly  ;  female  characters  of  all  ages  and  disposi- 
tions, from  tile  auld  guid-wife  "  wiia  fuft  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt," 
to  wee  Jenny  "  wi'  her  little  skelpie  limmer's  face  " — Jean,  Nell, 
Merran,  Meg,  maidens  all — and  "wanton  widow  Leezie  " — 
fio-ure  each  in  her  own  individuality  animated  into  full  life,  by 
a  fevv  touches.  Nor  less  various  the  males,  from  hav'rel  Will 
to  "  auld  uncle  John  wha  wedlock's  joys  sin'  Mar's  year  did 
d«sire  " — Rah  and  Jock,  and  "  fechtin  Jamie  Fleck  "  like  all 
bullies  "cooard  afore  bogles;"  the  only  pause  in  their  fast- 
following  proceedings  being  caused  by  garrulous  grannie's  pious 
reproof  of  Jenny  {"ov  daurin  to  try  sic  sportin  "as  eat  the  apple 
at  the  glass  " — a  reproof  proving  that  her  own  wrinkled  breast 
holds  many  queer  memories  of  lang-syne  Malloweens  ; — all  the 
carking  cares  of  the  work-day  world  are  clean  forgotten  ;  tiio 
hopes,  fears  and  wishes  that   most  agitate  every  human  breast. 


30  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  ^re  by  the  simplest  concealed,  here  exhibit  themselves  with, 
out  disguise  in  the  freedom  not  only  permitted  but  inspired  by 
the  passion  that  rules  the  night — ^"  the  passion,"  says  the  poet 
himself,  "of  prying  into  futurity,  which  makes  a  striking  part 
of  the  history  of  human  nature  in  its  rude  state,  in  all  ages  and 
nations ;  and  it  may  be  some  entertainment  to  a  philosophic 
mind,  if  any  such  should  honor  the  author  with  a  perusal,  to  see 
the  remains  of  it,  among  the  more  unenlightened  of  our  own." 

But  how  have  we  been  able  to  refrain  from  saying  a  few 
words  about  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  ?  How  affecting  Gil- 
bert's account  of  its  origin  ! 

"  Robert  had  frequently  remarked  to  me  that  he  thought  there 
was  somethiftg  peculiarly  vencraWe  in  the^lirase,  '  Letusjvor- 
ship  God/  used  by  a  decent  sober  head  of  a  family  introducing 
family  worship.  To  this  sentiment  of  the  author  the  world  is 
indebted  for  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night.  The  hint  of  tlie 
plan,  and  title  of  the  poem,  were  taken  from  Ferguson's  Farm- 
er's Ingle.  When  Robert  had  not  some  pleasure  in  view  in 
which  I  was  not  thought  fit  to  participate,  we  used  frequently 
to  walk- together,  when  the  weather  was  favorable,  on  the  Sunday 
afternoons  (those  precious  breathing-times  to  the  laboring  pari 
of  the  community)  and  enjoyed  such  Sundays  as  would,  make 
me  regret  to  see  their  number  abridged.  It  was  on  one  of  those 
walks  that  I  first  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  author  repeat 
the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night.  I  do  not  recollect  to  have  read  or 
heard  anything  by  whicii  I  was  more  highly  electrified."  No 
wonder  Gilbert  was  highly  electrified  ;  for  though  he  had  read 
or  heard  many  things  of  his  brotfier  Robert's  of  equal  poetical 
power,  not  one  among  them  all  was  so  charged  with  those 
sacred  influences  that  connect  the  human  heart  with  heaven.  It 
must  have  sounded  like  a  very  revelation  of  all  the'  holi- 
ness for  ever  abiding  in  that  familiar  observance,  bqj  whicli 
custom,  without  impairing  its  efficacy,  must  often  partially  hide 
from  the  children  of  labor  when  it  is  all  the  time  helping  to  sus- 
tain them  upon  and  above  this  earth.  And  this  from  the  erring 
to  the  steadfast  brother  !  From  the  troubled  to  the  quiet  .<:pirit  ! 
out  of  a  heart  too  often  steeped  in  the  waters  of  bitterness,  is- 
suing, as  from  an  unpolluted  fountain,   fh(>  inspiration  of  pious 


CHARACTER   OF  BURNS.  81 

song  !  But  its  effects  on  innumerable  hearts  is  not  now  electrical — 
it  inspires  peace.  It  is  felt  yet,  and  sadly  chantred  will  then  be 
Scotland,  if  ever  it  be  not  felt,  by  every  one  who  peruses  it,  to 
be  a  communication  from  brother  to  brother.  It  is  felt  by  us, 
all  through  from  beeinninti  to  end,  to  be  Burns's  Cottnr^s  Satur- 
day  Night  ;  at  each  succeeding  sweet  or  solemn  stanza  we  more 
and  more  love  the  man — at  its  close  we  bless  him  as  a  benefac- 
tor ;  and  if,  as  the  picture  fades,  thoughts  of  sin  and  of  sorrow 
will  arise,  and  will  not  be  put  down,  let  them,  as  we  hope  for 
mercy,  be  of  our  own — not  his  ;  let  us  tremble  for  ourselves  as 
we  hear  a  voice  saying,  "  Fear  God  and  keep  his  command- 
ments." 

There  are  few  more  perfect  poems.     It  is  the  utterance  of  a 
heart  whose  chords  were  all  tuned  to  gratitude,  "  making  sweet 
melody  "  to  the  Giver,  on  a  night  not  less  sacred  in  His  eye  than 
Tlis  own  appointed  Sabbath. 


"  November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  short'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  plough  ; 
.    The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose; 
The  toil  worn  Cottar  frae  his  labor  goes, 

T/iis  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  Spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend." 

That  one  single  stanza  is  in  itself  a  picture,  one  may  say  a 
poejii,  of  the  poor  man's  life.  It  is  so  imagined  on  the  eye  that 
we  absolutely  see  it ;  but  tlien  not  an^epithet  but  shows  the.  con- 
dition on  which  he  holds,  and  the  heart  with  which  he  endures, 
and  enjoys  it.  Work  he  must  in  the  face  of  November ;  but 
God  who  made  the  year  shortens  and  lengthens  its  days  for  the 
sake  of  his  living  creatures,  and  has  appointed  for  them  all 
their  hour  of  rest.  The  "miry  beasts"  will  soon  be  at  supper 
ill  their  clean-strawed  stalls — "the  black'ning  train  o'  craws" 
invisibly  hushed  on  their  rocking  trees  ;  and  he  whom  God  made 
after  his  own  image,  that  "  toil-worn  Cottar,"  he  too  may  He 
down  and  sleep.  There  is  nothing  especial  in  his  lot  wherefore 
he  should   be  pitied,  nor  are  we  asked  to  pity  liim,  as  he  "  col- 


32  THE  GENIUS  AND 


lects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes :"  many  of  us,  who 
have  work  to  do  and  do  it  not,  may  envy  his  contentment,  and 
the  religion  that  gladdens  his  release — "  hoping  the  morn  in 
ease  and  rest  to  spend,"  only  to  such  as  he,  in  truth,  a  Sabbath. 
"  Remember  that  thou  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  day.  Six  days 
shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  'that  thou  hast  to  do.  But  the 
seventh  day  is  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God.  In  it  thou 
shalt  do  no  manner  of  work  !"  O  !  that  man  should  ever  find  it 
in  his  heart  to  see  in  that  law  a  stern  obligation — not  a  merciful 
boon  and  a  blessed  privilege  ! 

In  those  times  family  worship  in  such  dwellings,  all  over 
Scotland,  was  not  confined  to  one  week-day.  It  is  to  be  believed 
that  William  Burnes  might  have  been  heard  by  his  son  Robert 
duly  every  night  saying,  "Let  us  worship  God."  "There  was 
something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase  "every  time  he 
heard  it;  .but  on  "Saturday  night"  family  worship  was  sur- 
rounded, in  its  solemnity,  with  a  gathering  of  whatever  is  most 
cheerful  and  unalloyed  in  the  lot  of  labor  ;  and  the  poet's  genius 
in  a  happy  hour  hearing  those  words  in  his  heart,  collected 
many  nights  into  one,  and  made  the  whole  observance,  as  it 
were,  a  religious  establishment,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  for  ever. 

"  The  fifth  and  sixth  stanzas,  and  the  eighteenth,"  says  Gil- 
bert, "thrilled  with  peculiar  ecstasy  through  my  soul;"  and 
well  they  might ;  for,  in  homeliest  words,  they  tell  at  once  of 
home's  familiar  doings  and  of  the  highest  thoughts  that  can 
ascend  in  supplication  to  the  throne  of  God.  What  is  the 
eighteenth  stanza,  and  why  did  it  too  "thrill  with  peculiar  ecs- 
tasy my  soul  ?"  You  may  be  sure  that  whatever  thrilled 
Gilbert's  soul  will  thrill  yours  if  it  be  in  holy  keeping;  for  he 
was  a  good  man,  and  walked  all  his  days  fearing  God. 

"  Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  <ip  to  Heaven  the  warm  re;]uest 
That  He  wlio  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fjir  in  llow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best. 
For  them  and  (or  tlieir  little  ones  provide  : 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  33 

Think  again  of  the  first  stanza  of  all — for  you  have  forgotten  il 
— of  the  toil-worn  Cottar  collecting  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and 
his  hoes,  and  weary  o'er  the  moor  bending  his  course  home- 
wards.  In  spite  of  his  hope  of  the  morn,  you  could  hardly  help 
looking  on  him  then  as  if  he  were  disconsolate — now  you  are 
prepared  to  believe,  with  the  poet,  that  such  brethren  are  among 
"the  best  of  their  country's  sons,  that 

"  From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs. 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad  ;" 

and  you  desire  to  join  in  the   Invocation   that  bursts   from  his 
pious  and  patriotic  heart : 

"  0  Scotia .'  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil. 

Be  bless'd  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content! 
And  0  !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  I 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  risj  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  ot  tire  around  their  much  lov'd  Isle. 

"  0  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 
0  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard. 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  !" 

We  said  there  are  few  more  perfect  poe.ms.  The  expression 
is  hardly  a  correct  one  ;  but  in  two  of  the  stanzas  there  are 
lines  which  we  never  read  without  wishing  them  away,  and 
there  is  one  stanza  we  could  son)etimcs  almost  wish  away  alto- 
gether;  the  sentiment,  though  beautifully  worded,  being  some- 
what harsh,  and  such  as  must  be  felt  to  be  unjust  by  many  de- 
vout and  pious  people : 


34  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name; 
Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heaven-ward  flame, 

Tlie  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Com]iared  with  these  Italian  trilli<  are  tame  ; 
The  tickrd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise ; 
JVae  unison  hae  they  with  onr  Creator's  praise." 

We  do  not  find  fault  with  Burns  for  having  written  these  lines  : 
for  association  of  feeling  with  feeling,  by  contrast,  is  perhaps  most 
of  all  powerful  in  music.  Believing  that  there  was  no  devotional 
spirit  in  Italian  music,  it  was  natural  for  him  to  denounce  its 
employment  in  religious  services ;  but  we  all  know  that  it  can- 
not without  most  ignorant  violation  of  truth  be  said  of  the  hymns 
of  that  most  musical  of  all  people,  and  superstitious  as  tliey  may 
be,  among  the  most  devout,  that 

"  Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise." 

Our  objection  to  some  lines  in  another  stanza  is  more  serious, 
for  it  applies  not  to  a  feeling  but  a  judgment.  That  tliere  is 
more  virtue  in  a  cottage  than  in  a  palace  we  are  not  disposed  to 
deny  at  any  time,  least  of  all  when  reading  the  Cottar's  Saturday 
Night:  and  we  entirely  go  along  with 'Burns  when  he  says, 

"  And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind ;" 

but  there,  we  think,  he  ought  to  have  stopped,  or  illustrated  the 
truth  in  a  milder  manner  than 

"  What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  .'  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disi^uising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined." 

Our  moral  nature  revolts  with  a  sense  of  injustice  from  the  com- 
parison of  the  wickedness  of  one  cla.ss  with  the  goodness  of  an- 
other ;  and  the  effect  is  the  very  opposite  of  that  intended,  the 
rising  up  of  a  miserable  conviction   that  for  a  while  had  been 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


laid  asleep,  tliat  vice  and  crime  are  not  excluded  from  cots,  but 
often,  alas !  are  found  there  in  their  darkest  colors  and  most 
portentous  forms. 

The  whole  stanza  we  had  in  our  mind    as  somehow  or  other 
not  entirely  delightful,  is 

"  Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide. 
Devotion's  every  grace  except  the  heart. 
The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert. 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol." 

"Let  us  join  in  the  woi'ship  of  God"  is  a  strong  desire  of  na- 
ture, and  a  commanded  duty  ;  and  thus  are  brought  together, 
for  praise  and  prayer,  "  congregations  wide,"  in  all  populous 
places  of  every  Christian  land.  Superstition  is  sustained  by  the 
same  sympathy  as  religion — enligiitenment  of  reason  beino-  es- 
sential to  faith.  There  sit,  every  Sabbath,  hundreds  of  hypo- 
crites, thousands  of  the  sincere,  tens  of  thousands  of  the  inditfer- 
ent — how  many  of  the  devout  or  how  kw  who  shall  say  that  un- 
derstands the  meaning  o'l  devotion?  U all  be  false  and  hollow,  a 
mere  semblance  onlv,  then  indeed 

"  The  Povv'r  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ;  " 

but  if,  even  in  the  midst  of  "religion's  pride,"  there  be  humble 
and  contrite  hearts — if  a  place  be  found  for  the  poor  in  spirit 
even  "in  gay  religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold  " — a  Christian 
poet  ought  to  guard  his  heart  against  scorn  of  the  ritual  of  any 
form  of  Christian  >vorship.  Be  it  performed  in  Cathedral,  Kirk, 
or  Cottage — God  regards  it  only  when  performed  in  spirit  and  in 

^Jxutli.. 

Remember  all  this  poetry,  and  a  hundred  almost  as  hue  things 
be^des,  was  composed  within  little  more  than  t\vo  years,  ])y  a 
man  all  the  while  working  for  wages — seven  pounds  from  ^May- 
day  to  May-day  ;  and  that  he  never  idled  at  his  work,  but  mowed 


36  THE  GENIUS  AND 

and  ploughed  as  if  working  by  the  piece,  and  could  afford  there- 
fore, God  bless  his  heart,  to  stay  the  share  for  a  minute,  but  too 
late  for  the  "  wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  timorous  beastie's "  nest. 
Folk's  have  said  he  was  a  bad  farmer,  and  neglected  Mossglel, 
an  idler  in  the  land. 

"  How  various  his  employments  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle  ! " 

Absent  in  the  body,  we  doubt  not,  he  frequently  was  from  his 
fields ;  oftenest  in  the  evenings  and  at  night.  Was  he  in  Nance 
Tinnock's  ?  She  knew  him  by  name  and  head-mark,  for  once 
seen  he  was  not  to  be  forgotten  ;  but  she  complained  that  he  had 
never  drunk  three  half-mutchkins  in  her  house,  whatever  he 
might  say  in  his  lying  poems.  In  Poussie  Nannie's — mother  of 
Racer  Jess? — He  was  there  once;  and  out  of  the  scum  and 
refuse  of  the  outcasts  of  the  lowest  grade, of  possible  being,  he 
constructed  a  Beggar's  Opera,  in  which  the  singers  and  dancers, 
drabs  and  drunkards  all,  belong  still  to  humanity  ;  and  though 
huddling  together  in  the  filth  of  the  flesh,  must  not  be  classed, 
in  their  enjoyments,  with  the  beasts  that  perish.  In  the  Smiddy  ? 
Ay,  you  might  have  found  him  there,  at  times  when  he  had  no 
horse  to  be  shoed,  no  coulter  to  be  sharpened. 

"  When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 
An'  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 
O  rare  !  to  see  thee  fizz  an'  freath 

r  th'  luggit  caup  ! 
Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 

At  every  chaup. 

"  Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel ; 
The  brawnie,  bainic,  ploughman  cheel, 
Brings  hand  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel, 
Tlie  strong  forehammer. 
Till  block  an'  studdie  ring  an'  reel 

Wi'  dinsome  clamor." 

On  frozen  Muir-loch?  Among  the  curlei-s  "  a*  their  rodring 
play  "-^roaring  is  the  right  word — but  'tis  not  the  bonspiel  only 
that  ruaii,  it  is  the  ice,  and  echo  tells  it  is  from  her  crags  that 
Bubmit  not  to  the  snow.     There  king  of  his  rink   was  Rabbic 


o 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  37 


Burns  to  be  found;  and  at  night  in  the  Hostelry,  in  the  reek  of 
beef  and  greens  and  "  Scotch  drink,"  Apollo  in  the  shape  of  a 
ploughman  at  the  head  of  the  fir-table  that  dances  witii  all  its 
glasbcs  to  the  horny  fists  clenching  with  cordial  thumpers  the 
sallies  of  wit  and  humor  volleying  from  liis  lips  and  eyes,  un re- 
proved by  the  hale  old  minister  who  is  happy  to  meet  his  parish- 
ioners out  of  the  pulpit,  and  by  his  presence  keeps  the  poet 
within  bounds,  if  not  of  absolute  decorum,  of  that  decency  be- 
coming men  in  their  most  jovial  mirth,  and  not  to  be  violated 
without  reproach  by  genius  in  its  most  wanton  mood  dallying 
even  with  forbidden  thino;s.  Or  at  a  Rockin'  ?  An  eveninir 
meeting,  as  you  know,  "  one  of  the  objects  of  which,"  so  says 
the  glossary,  "  is  spinning  with  the  rock  or  distaff;  "  but  which 
has  many  other  objects,  as  the  dullest  may  conjecture,  when 
lads  and  lasses  have  come  flockincr  from  "  behind  the  hills  where 
Stincliar  flows,  mang  muirs  and  mosses  many  o',''  to  one  soli- 
tary homestead  made  roomy  enough  for  them  all  ;  and  if  now 
and  then  felt  to  be  too  close  and  crowded  for  the  elderly  peopje 
and  the  old,  not  unprovided  with  secret  spots  near  at  hand  in  the 
broom  and  the  brackens,  where  the  sleeping  lintwhites  sit  undis- 
turbed by  lovers'  whispers,  and  lovers  may  look,  if  they  choose 
it,  unashamed  to  the  stars. 

And  v.hat  was  he  going  to  do  with  all  tliis  poetry — poetry 
accumulating  fast  as  his  hand,  released  at  night  from  other  im- 
plements, could  put  it  on  paper,  in  bold,  round,  upright  charac- 
ters, that  tell  of  fingers  more  familiar  with  the  plough  than  the 
pen  ?  He  himself  sometimes  must  have  wondered  to  find  every 
receptacle  in  the  spence  crammed  with  manuscripts,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  many  others  floating  .about  all  over  the  country, 
and  setting  the  smiddies  in  a  roar,  and  not  a  few,  of  which 
nothing  was  said,  folded  in  the  breast-kerchiefs  of  maidens,  put 
therein  by  his  own  hand  on  the  lea-rig,  beneath  the  milk-white 
thorn.     What  brought  him  out  into  the  face  of  day  as  a  Poet  ? 

Of  all  the  women  Burns  ever  loved,  Mary  Campbell  not  ex- 
cepted, the  dearest  to  hmi  by  far,  from  first  to  last,  was  Jean 
Am  our.  During  composition  her  image  rises  up  from  iiis  heart 
before  his  eyes  the  instant  he  touches  on  any  thought  oi-  feeling 
with  which  she  could   be  in  any  way  connected ;  and  sometimes 


69561 


38  THE  GENIUS  AND 


his  allusions  to  her  might  even  seem  out  of  place,  did  they  not 
please  us,  by  letting  us  know  that  he  could  not  altogether  forget 
her,  whatever  the  subject  liis  muse  had  chosen.  Others  may 
have  inspired  more  poetical  strains,  but  there  is  an  earnestness 
in  his  fervors,  at  her  name,  that  brings  her  breathing  in  warm 
flesh  and  blood  to  his  breast.  Highland  Mary  lie  would  have 
made  his  wife,  and  perhaps  broken  her  heart.  He  loved  her 
living,  as  a  creature  in  a  dream,  dead  as  a  spirit  in  heaven. 
But  Jean  Armour  possessed  his  heart  in  the  stormiest  season 
of  his  passions,  and  she  possessed  it  in  the  lull  that  preceded 
their  dissolution.  She  was  well  worthy  of  his  affection,  on  ac- 
count of  her  excellent  qualities ;  and  tliough  never  beautiful, 
had  many  personal  attractions.  But  Burns  felt  himself  Ijound 
to  lier  by  that  inscrutable  mystery  in  the  soul  of  every  man,  by 
which  one  other  being,  and  one  only,  is  believed,  and  truly, 
to  be  essential  to  his  happiness  here, — without  whom,  life  is  not 
life.  Her  strict  and  stern  father,  enraged  out  of  all  religion, 
both  natural  and  revealed,  with  his  daughter  for  having  sinned 
with  a  man  of  sin,  tpre  from  her  hands  her  marriage  lines  as 
she  besought  forgiveness  on  her  knees,  and  without  pity  for  the 
life  stirring  witliin  her,  terrified  her  into  the  surrender  and  re- 
nunciation of  the  title  of  wife,  branding  her  thereby  with  an  ab- 
horred name.  A  father's  power  is  sometimes  very  terrible,  and 
it  was  so  here  ;  for  she  submitted,  with  less  outward  show  of  agony 
than  can  be  well  understood,  and  Burns  almost  became  a  mad- 
man. His  worldly  circumstances  were  wholly  desperate,  for 
bad  seasons  had  stricken  dead  the  cold  soil  of  Mossgiel  ;  but  he 
was  willing  to  work  for  his  vvife  in  ditches,  or  to  support  her  for 
a  while  at  liome,  by  his  wages  as  a  negro-driver  in  the  West 

Indies. 

A  more  unintelligil)le  passage  than  this  never  occurred  in  the 
life  of  any  other  man,  certainly  never  a  more  trying  one  ;  and 
Burns  must  at  this  time  have  been  tormented  by  as  many  violent 
passions,  in  instant  succession  or  altogether,  as  the  human  hear.t 
could  hold.  In  verse  he  had  for  years  given  vent  to  all  his 
moods  ;  ami  his  brother  tells  us  that  the  Lament  was  composed 
"  after  tiie  first  distraction  of  his  feelings  had  a  little  subsided." 
Had  he  lost  her  by  death  he  would   have  been  dumb,  but  his 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  39 


grief  was   not   mortal,  and  it  grew  eloquent,  when  relieved  and 
sustained  tVoin  prostration  by  other  passions  that  lifi  up  the  head, 
if.it  be  only  to  let  it  sink   down  again,  rage,  pride,  indignation, 
jealousy,  and   scorn.      "  Never  man  loved,  or  rather  adored  wo- 
man  more  than  I  did  her  ;   and  to  confess  a  truth   between  you 
and    me,  I  do  still    love    her  to  distraction    after  all.      My  poor 
dear  unfortunate  Jean  !     It  is  not  the  losing  her  that  makes  me 
so  unha.ppy  ;   but  for  her  sake  I  feel  most  severely  ;   1  grieve  she 
is  in  the  road  to,  I  fear,  eternal   ruin.     May  Almighty  God   for- 
give her  ingratitude   and  perjury  to  me,  as  1  from  my  very  soul 
forgive  her  ;   and  may  his   grace  be  with  her,  and    bless  her  in 
all  her  future  life  !     I  can  have  no  nearer  idea  of  the  place  of 
eternal   punishment  than  what  I  have  felt  in  my  own  breast  on 
her  account.      I  have  tried   often  to  forget  her;    I  have  run  into 
all    kinds  of   dissipation   and     riot,    mason-meetings,    drinking 
matches,  and   other   mischiefs,  to  drive  her  out  of  my  head,  but 
all  in  vain.     And    now  for  tlie   grand   cure  :  the  ship  is  on  her 
way  home,  that  is  to   take   me  out  to  Jamaica ;  and  then  fare- 
well, dear   old   Scotland!  and   farewell,  dear   ungrateful  Jean  ! 
for  never,  never  will  I  sec  you   more."     In  the  Lament,  there 
are  the  same  passions,  but  genius  has  ennobled  them  by  the  ten- 
derness and  elevation    of  the   fmest   poetry,  guided   their  transi- 
tions by  hfer  solemnizing   power,  inspired   their  appeals  to  con- 
scious night    and    nature,  and    subdued  down  to  the   beautiful 
and  pathetic,  the  expression  of  what   had    else  been  agony  and 
despair. 

Twenty  pounds  would  enable  him  to  leave  Scotland,  and  take 
him  to  Jamaica  ;  and  to  raise  them,  it  occurred  to  Robert  Burns 
to  publish  his  poems  by  subscription!  *'  I  was  pretty  confident 
my  poems  would  meet  with  some  applause  ;  but  at  the  worst, 
the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen  thj  voice  of  censure, 
and  the  novelty  of  West  Indian  scenes  make  me  forget  ne- 
glect. I  threw  oT  six  hundred  copies,  of  which  I  got  subscrip- 
tions for  about  three  hundred  and  sixty.  My  vanity  was  highly 
gratified  by  the  reception  I  met  with  fron)  the  public;  and  be- 
sides, 1  pocketed,  all  expenses  deducted,  near  twenty  pounds. 
This  sum  came  very  seasonably,  as  I  was'  thinking  ul"  inden- 
turing myself  for  want  of  money  to  procure  my  passage.     As 


40  THE  GENIUS  AND 


soon  as  I  was  mastei"  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of  wafiing  me 
to  the  torrid  zone,  I  took  a.  steerage  passage  in  the  first  ship  tliat 
was  to  sail  for  the  Clyde,  '  For  hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the 
wind.'  "  The  ship  sailed  ;  but  Burns  was  still  at  Mossgiel,  for 
his  strong  heart  could  not  tear  itself  away  from  Scotland,  and 
some  of  his  friends  encouraged  him  to  hope  that  he  might  be 
made  a  gauger!  In  a  few  months  he  was  about  to  be  hailed, 
by  the  universal  acclamation  of  his  country,  a  great  National 
Poet. 

But  the  enjoyment  of  his  fame  all  round  his  birth-place,  "  the 
heart  and  the  main  region  of  his  song,"  intense  as  we  know  it 
was,  though  it  assuaged,  could  not  still  the  troubles  of  his  heart ; 
his  life  amidst  it  all  was  as  hopeless  as  when  it  was  obscure; 
'^  his  chest  was  on  its  road  to  Greenock,  where  he  was  to  embark 
in  a  few  days  for  America,"  and  again  he  sung 


"  Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales, 
Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales, 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past  unhappy  loves. 
Farewell  my  friends,  farewell  my  foes. 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  decLire, 
Farewell  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr ;" 

when  a  few  words  from  a  blind  old  man  to  a  country  clergy- 
man kindled  witiiin  him  a  new  hope,  and  set  his  heart  on  fire ; 
and  while 

"  November  winds  blew  loud  wi'  angry  sugh," 

"  I  posted  away  to  Edinburgh  without  a  single  acquaintance,  or 
a  single  htter  of  introduction.  The  baneful  star  that  had  so 
long  shed  its  blasting  influence  on  my  zenith,  for  once  made  a 
revolution  to  the  Nadir." 

At  first,  Burns  was  stared  at  with  such  eyes  as  people  open 
wide  who  behold  a  prodigy  ;  for  though  he  looked  the  rustic, 
and  his  broad  shoulders  had  the  stoop  that  stalwart  men  ac- 
quire at  the  plough,  his  swartiiy  face  was  ever  and  anon  illu- 
mmed  with  tlie  look  that  genius  alone  puts  off  and  on,  and  that 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  41 


comes  and  goes  with  a  new  interpretation  of  imagination's 
winored  words.  For  a  week  or  two  he  liad  lived  chiefly  with 
some  Ayrsliire  acquaintances,  and  was  not  personally  known 
to  any  of  the  leading  men.  But  as  soon  as  he  came  forward, 
and  was  seen  and  heard,  his  name  went  through  the  city,  and 
people  asked  one  another,  "  Have  you  met  Burns?"  His  de- 
meanor amonor  the  Mafjnates,  was  not  onlv  unembarrassed  but 
dignified,  and  it  was  at  once  disceuned  by  the  blindest  that  he 
belonged  to  the  aristocracy  of  nature.  "  The  idea  which  his 
conversation  conveyed  of  the  power  of  his  mind,  exceeded,  if 
possible,  that  which  is  suggested  by  his  writings.  Among  the 
poets  whom  I  have  happened  to  know,  I  have  been  struck,  in 
more  than  one  instance,  with  tlie  unaccountable  disparity  be- 
tween their  general  talents,  and  the  occasional  aspirations  of 
their  more  favored  moments.  But  all  the  faculties  of  Burns's 
mind  were,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  equally  vigorous  ;  and  his 
predilections  for  poetry  were  rather  the  result  of  his  own  enthu- 
siastic and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a  genius  exclusively 
adapted  to  tlwt  species  of  composition."'  Who  those  poets  were, 
of  occasional  inspiration  and  low  general  talents,  and  in  conver- 
sation felt  to  be  of  the  race  of  the  feeble,  Dugald  Stewart  had 
too  much  delicacy  to  tell  us ;  but  if  Edinburgh  had  been  their 
haunt,  and  theirs  the  model  of  the  poetical  character  in  the  judg- 
ment of  her  sages,  no  wonder  that  a  new  light  was  thrown  on 
the  Philosopiiv  of  the  Human  Mind  by  that  of  Rob'ert  Burns. 
For  his  intellectual  faculties  were  of  the  highest  order,  and 
though  deferential  to  superior  knowledge,  he  spoke  on  all  sub- 
jects he  understood,  and  they  were  many,  with  a  voice  of  deter- 
mination, and  when  need  was,  of  command.  It  was  not  in  the. 
debating  club  in  Tarbolton  alone,  about  which  so  much  non- 
sense lias  been  prosed,  that  he  had  learned  eloquence  ;  he  had 
been  long  givmg  chosen  and  deliberate  utterance  to  all  his 
bright  ideas  and  strong  emotions;  they  were  all  his  own,  or  he 
had  made  them  his  own  by  transfusion  ;  and  so,  therefore,  was 
his  speecli.  Its  fount  was  in  genius,  and  therefore  could  not 
run  dry — a  flowing  spring  that  needed  neitiier  to  he  fanged  nor 
pumped.  As  he  had  the  power  of  eloquence,  so  had  he  the  willj 
the  desire,  the   ambition  to  put  it  forth  ;   for  he  rejoiced  to  carry 


42  THE  GENIUS  AND 


with  him  the  sympathies  of  his  kind,  and  in  his  iiighcst  moods 
he  was  not  satisfied  with  their  admiration  without  their  love. 
There  never  beat  a  heart  more  alive  to  kindness.  To  the  wise 
and  good,  how  eloquent  his  gratitude !  to  Glencairn,  how  imper- 
ishable !  This  exceeding  tenderness  of  heart  often  gave  such 
pathos  to  his  ordinary  talk,  that  he  even  melted  common-place 
piople  into  tears!  Without  scholarship,  without  science,  with 
not  much  of  what  is  called  information,  he  charmed  the  first 
men  in  a  society  equal  in  all 'these  to  any  at  that  time  in  Eu- 
rope. The  scholar  was  happy  to  forget  his  classic  lore,  as  he 
listened,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  noblest  sentiments  flowing  from 
the  lips  of  a  rustic,  sometimes  in  his  own  Doric,  divested  of  all 
otfei^sive  vulgarity,  but  oftener  in  language  which,  in  our  north- 
ern capital,  was  thought  pure  English,  and  comparatively  it  was 
so,  for  in  those  days  the  speech  of  many  of  the  most  distin- 
guished persons  would  have  been  unintelligible  out  of  Scotland," 
and  they  were  proud  of  excelling  in  the  use  of  their  mother 
tongue.  The  philosopher  wondered  that  the  peasant  should 
comprehend  intuitively  truths  that  had  been  established,  it  was 
so  thought,  by  reasoning  demonstrative  or  inductive  ;  as  the 
illustrious  Stewart,  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  wondered  liow 
clear  an  idea  Burns  the  Poet  had  of  Alison's  True  Theory  of 
Taste.  True  it  is  that  the  great  law  of  association  has  by  no 
one  been  so  beautifully  stated  in  a  single  sentence  as  by  Burns: 
"  That  thcf  martial  clangor  of  a  trumpet  had  something  in  it 
vastly  more  grand,  heroic,  and  sublime  than  the  twingle-twangle 
of  a  .lews'-harp  ;  that  the  delicate  flexure  of  a  rose-twig,  when 
the  half-blown  flower  is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn,  was 
infinitely  more  beautiful  and  elegant  than  the  upright  stalk  of 
the  burdock  ;  and  that  from  something  innate  and  independent 
of  all  associations  of  ideas — these  I  had  set  down  as  irrefra- 
gable orthodox  truths,  until  perusing  your  book  shook  my  faith." 
The  man  of  wit — aye  even  Marry  Erskine  himself — and  a  M'it- 
tier  than  he  never  charmed  social  life — was  nothing  loth,  with 
his  delightful  amenity,  to  cease  for  a  while  the  endless  series  of 
anecdotes  so  admirably  illustrative  of  tho  peculiarities  of  na- 
tions,  orders,  or  individuals,  and  almost  all  of  thoni  created  or 
vivified  by  his  own  genius,  that  tho  most  accomplished   compa- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  43 


nies  might,  experience  a  new  pleasure  from  the   rich   and   racy 
humor  of  a  natural  converser  fresh  from  the  plough. 

And  how  did  Burns  bear  all  this,  and  much  besides  even  more 
trying?  For  you  know  that  a  duchess  declared  that  she  had 
never  before  in  all  her  life  met  with  a  man  who  so  fairly  carried 
her  off  her  feet.  Hear  Professor  Stewart:  "The  attentions  he 
received  during  his  stay  in  town,  from  all  ranks  and  descrip- 
tions of  persons,  were  such  as  would  have  turned  any  head  but 
his  own.  I  cannot  say  that  I  could  perceive  any  unfavorable 
effect  which  they  left  on  his  mind.  He  retained  the  same  sim- 
plicity of  manners  and  appearance  which  had  struck  me  so 
forcibly  when  I  first  saw  him  in  the  country  ;  nor  did  he  seem 
to  feel  any  additional  self-importance  from  the  number  and  rank 
of  his  new  acquaintance."  In  many  passages  of  his  letters  to 
friends  who  had  their  fears.  Burns  expressed  entire  confidence  in 
his  owfi  self-respect,  and  in  terms  the  most  true  and  touching; 
as,  for  example,  to  Dr.  Moore  •  "  The  hope  to  be  admired  for 
ages  is,  in  by  far  the'  greater  part  of  those  who  even  were  au- 
thors of  repute,  an  unsubstantial  dream.  For  my  part,  my 
first  ambition  was,  and  still  is,  to  please  my  compeers,  the  rustic 
inmates  of  the  hamlet,  while  ever-changing  language  and  man- 
ners shall  allow  me  to  be  relished  and  understood."  And  to  his 
venerated  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop,  he  gives  utterance,  in  the  midst 
f)f  his  triumphs,  to  dark  forebodings,  some  of  which  were  but 
too  soon  fulfilled  !  "  You  arc  afraid  that  I  shall  grow  .intoxi- 
cated with  my  prosperity  as  a  poet.  Alas !  Madam,  I  know 
myself  and  the  world  too  well.  "  1  assure  you.  Madam,  -l  do  not 
dissemble,  when  I  tell  you  I  tremble  for  the  consequences.  The 
novelty  of  a  poet  in  my  obscure  situation,  without  any  of  those 
advantages  which  are  reckoned  necc  sary  for  that  character,  at 
least  at  this  time  of  day,  has  raised  a  partial  tide  of  public  no- 
tice, which  has  borne  me  to  a  height  where  I  am  feeling  abso- 
lutely certain  my  abilities  arc  inadequate  to  support  me  ],  and 
too  surely  do  I  see  that  time,  when  the  same  tide  will  leave  me, 
and  recede,  perhaps,  as  far  below  the  mark  of  trutii.  I  do  not 
say  this  in  ridiculous  affectation  of  self-abasement  and  modesty. 
1  have  studied  myself,  and  know  MJiat  ground  I  occupy  ;  and 
however  a  friend  or  the   world   may  differ  from  me  in  that  par^- 


44  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ticular,  I  stand  for  my  own  opinion  in  silent  resolve,  with  all  the 
tenaciousness  of  property.  I  mention  this  to  you  once  for  all,  to 
disburthen  my  mind,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  or  say  more  about 
it.     But, 

'  When  proud  fortune's  ebbing  tide  recedes,' 

you  will  bear  me  witness,  that,  when  my  bubble  of  fame  was  at 
the  highest,  I  stood,  unintoxicated  with  the  inebriating  cup  in 
my  hand,  looking  forward  with  rueful  resolve  to  the  hastening 
time  when  the  blow  of  Calumny  should  dash  it  to  the  ground 
with  all  the  eagerness  of  vengeful  triumph." 

Such  equanimity  is  magnanimous  ;  for  though  it  is  easy  to 
declaim  on  the  vanity  of  fame,  and  the  weakness  of  them  who 
are  intoxicated  with  its  bubbles,  the  noblest  have  still  longed  for 
it,  and  what  a  fatal  change  it  has  indeed  often  wrought  on  the 
simplicity  and  sincerity  of  the  most  gifted  spirits  !  There  must 
be  a  moral  grandeur  in  his  character  who  receives  sedately  the 
unexpected,  though  deserved  ratification  of  his  title  to  that 
genius  whose  empire  is  the  inner  being  of  his  race,  from  the 
voice  of  his  native  land  uttered  aloud  through  all  her  I'esions. 
and  harmoniously  combined  of  innumerable  tones  all  expressive 
of  a  great  people's  pride.  Make  what  deductions  you  will  from 
the  worth  of  that  "All  hail.!  "  and  still  it  must  have  sounded  in 
Burns's  ears  as  a  realization  of  that  voice  heard  by  his  prophetic 
soul  in  the  "  Vision." 

"  All.  Hail  !  my  owjf  inspired  bard  ! 
I  taught  tliy  manners-painting  strains, 
The  loves,  tht  ways  of  simple  swains. 
Till,  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  Fame  EXTENDS  !" 

Robert  Burns  was  not  the  man  to  have  degraded  himself  ever- 
lastingly, by  one  moment's  seeming  slight  or  neglect  of  friends, 
new  or  old,  belonging  cither  to  his  own  condition,  or  to  a  rank 
in  life  somewhat  higher  perhaps  than  his  own,  although  not  ex- 
actly to  that  "select  society  "  to  which  the  wonder  awakened  by 
his  genius  had  given  him  a  sudden  introduction.  Persons  in 
that  middle  or  inferior  rank  were   his   natural,  bis  best,  and  his 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  45 


truest  friends  ;  and  many  of  them,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  were 
worthy  of  his  happiest  companionship  eitiier  in  the  festal  hour 
or  the  hour  of  closer  communion.  He  had  no  rigl)t,  with  all 
his  genius,  to  stand  aloof  from  them,  and  with  a  heart  like  his 
lie  liad  no  inclination.  Why  should  he  have  lived  exclusively 
with  lords  and  ladies — paper  or  land  lords — ladies  by  descent  or 
courtesy — with  aristocratic  advocates,  philosophical  professors, 
clergymen,  wild  or  moderate,  Arminian  or  Calvinistic  ?  Some 
of  them  were  among  the  first  men  of  their  age  ;  others  were 
doubtless  not  inerudite,  and  a  few  not  unwitty  in  their  own  es- 
teem ;  and  Burns  greatly  enjoyed  their  society,  in  which  he  met 
with  an  admiration  that  must  have  been  to  him  the  pleasure  of 
a  perpetual  triumph.  But  more  of  them  were  dull  and  pom. 
pous  ;  incapable  of  righlly'estimating  or  feeling  the  power  of 
his  genius  ;  and  when  the  glitter  and  the  gloss  of  novelty  was 
worn  off  before  their  shallow  eyes,  from  the  poet  who  bore  them 
all  down  into  insignificance,  then  no  doubt  they  began"  to  get 
offended  and  shocked  with  his  rusticity  or  rudeness,  and  sought 
refuge  in  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  the  laws,  not  to  be  violat- 
ed with  impunity,  of  "  select  society."  The  patronage  he  re- 
ceived was  honorable,  and  he  felt  it  to  be  so  ;  but  it  was  still 
patronage  ;  and  had  he,  for  the  sake  of  it  or  its  givers,  forgotten 
for  a  day  the  humblest,  lowest,  meanest  of  his  friends,  or  even 
his  acquaintances,  how  could  he  have  borne  to  read  his  own  two 
bold  lines — 

"  The  rank  is  but  the  'guinea  stamp. 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that  ? " 

Besides,  we  know  from  Burns's  poetry  what  was  then  the  char- 
acter of  the  people  of  Scotland,  for  they  were  its  materials,  its 
staple.  Her  peasantry  were  a  noble  race,  and  their  virtues 
moralized  his  song.  The  inhabitants  of  the  towns  were  of  the 
same  family — the  same  blood — one  kindred — and  many,  most 
of  them,  had  been  born,  or  in  some  measure  bred,  in  the  coun- 
try. Their  ways  of  thinking,  feeling,  and  acting  were  much 
alike  ;  and  the  shopkeepers  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  were  as 
proud  of  Robert  Burns,  as  the  ploughmen  and  shepherds  of 
Kyle  and  the  Stewartry.     He  saw  in  them  friends  and  brothers. 


45  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Their  admiration  of  him  was,  perhaps,  fully  more  sincere  and 
heartfelt,  nor  accompanied  with  loss  understanding  of  his  merits, 
than  that  of  persons  in  higher  places  ;  and  most  assuredly  among 
the  respectable  citizens  of  Edinburgh  Burns  found  more  lasting 
friends  tlian  he  ever  did  among  her  gentry  and  noblesse.  Nor 
can  we  doubt,  that  then  as  now,  there  were  in  that  order  crreat 
numbers  of  men  of  well  cultivated  minds,  whom  Burns,  in  iiis 
best  hours,  did  right  to  honor,  and  w.ho  were  perfectly  entitled 
to  seek  his  society,  and  to  open  their  hospitable  doors  to  the 
brilliant  stranger.  That  Burns,  whose  sympathies  were  keen 
and  wide,  and  who  never  dreamt  of  lookinc  down  on  others  as 
beneath  him,  merely  because  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  vast 
superiority  to  the  common  run  of  men,  should  havfe  shunned  or 
been  shy  of  such  society,  would  have  been  something  altogether 
unnatural  and  incredible  ;  nor  is  it  at  all  wonderful  or  blame- 
able  that  he  should  occasionally  even  have  much  preferred  such 
society  to  that  which  has  been  called  "  more  select,"  and  there- 
fore above  his  natural  and  proper  condition.  Admirably  as  he 
in  general  behaved  in  the  higher  circles,  in  those  humbler  ones 
alone  could  he  have  felt  himself  completely  at  home.  His  de- 
meanor among  the  rich,  the  great,  the  learned,  or  the  wise, 'iiiust 
often  have  been  subject  to  some  little  restraint,  and  all  restraint 
of  that  sort  is  ever  painful ;  or,  what  is  worse  still,  his  talk  must 
sometimes  have  partaken  of  display.  With  companions  and 
friends,  who  claimed  no  superiority  in  anything,  the  sensitive 
mind  of  Burns  must  have  been  at  its  best  and  happiest,  because 
completely  at  its  ease,  and  free  movement  given  to  the  play  of 
all  its  feelings  and  faculties;  and  in  such  companies  we  cannot 
but  believe  that  his  wonderful  conversational  powers  shone  forth 
in  their  most  various  splendor.  He  must  have  given  vent  there 
to  a  thousand  familiar  fancies,  in  all  their  freedom  and  all  their 
force,  which,  in  the  fastidious  society  of  high  life,  his  imagina- 
tion must  have  been  too  much  fettered  even  to  conceive ;  and 
which,  had  they  flowed  from  his  lips,  would  either  not  have  been 
understood,  or  would  have  given  offence  to  that  delicacy,  of 
breeding  which  is  often  hurt  even  by  the  best  manners  of  those 
whose  manners  are  all  of  nature's  teaching,  and  unsubjected 
to  the   salutary  restraints  of  artificial   life.     Indeed,  we  know 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  47 

that  Burns  sometimes  burst  suddenly  and  alarmingly  the  re- 
straints  of  "  select  society  ;  "  and  that  on  one  occasion  he  called 
a  clergyman  an  idiot  for  misquoting  Gray's  Elegy — a  truth  that 
ought  not  to  have  been  promulgated  in  presence  of  the  parson, 
especially  at  so  early  a  meal  as  breakfast :  and  he  confesses  in 
his  most  confidential  letters,  though  indeed  he  was  then  writin": 
with  some  bitterness,  that  he  never  had  been  truly  and  entirely 
happy  at  rich  men's  feasts.  •  Jf  so,  then  never  could  he  have 
displayed  there  his  genius  in  full  power  and  lustre.  His  noble 
rage  must  in  some  measure  have  been  repressed — the  genial 
current' of  his  soul  in  some  degree  frozen.  He  never  was,  never 
could  be,  the  free,  fearless,  irresistible  Robert  Burns  that  nature 
made  him — no,  not  even  although  he  carried  the  Duchess  of 
Gordon  off  her  feet,  and  silenced  two  Ex-Moderators  of  the 
General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland.' 

Burns,  before  his  visit  to  Edinburgh,  had  at  all  times  and 
places  been  in  the  habit  of  associating  with  the  best  men  of  his 
order — the  best  in  everything,  in  station,  in  manners,  in  moral 
and  intellectual  character.  Such  men  as  William  Tell  and 
Hofer,  for  example,  associated  with  in  Switzerland  and  the 
Tyrol.  Even  the  persons  he'  got  unfortunate4y  too  well  ac- 
quainted with  (but  whose  company  he  soon  shook  otf),  at  Irvine 
and  Kirk-Oswald — smusijlers  and  their  adherents,  were,  thouirh 
a  lawless  and  dangerous  set,  men  of  spunk,  and  spirit,  and 
power,  both  of  mind  and  body  ;  nor  was  there  anytliing  the  least 
degrading  in  an  ardent,  impassioned,  and  imaginative  youth  be- 
coming for  a  time  I'atlier  too  much  attached  to  such  daring,  and 
adventurous,  and  even  interesting  characters.  They  had  all  a 
fine  strong  poetical  smell  of  the  sea,  mingled  to  precisely  the  ■ 
proper  pitch  with  that  of  the  contraband.  As  a  poet  Burns 
must  have  been  much  the  better  of  such  temporary  associates ; 
as  a  man,  let  us  hope,  notwithstanding  Gilbert's  fears,  not  greatly 
the  worse.  The  passions  that  boiled  in  his  blood  would  have 
overflowed  his  life,  often  to  disturb,  and  finally  to  help  to  destroy 
hifii,  had  there  never  been  an  Irvine  and  its  sea-port.  But 
Burns's  friends,  up  to  the  time  he  visited  Edinburgh,  l:ad  been 
chiefly  his  admirable  brother,  a  few  of  the  ministers  round 
about,  farmers,  ploughmen,   farm-servants,   and  workers  in  the_ 

5 


48  THE  GENIUS  AND 


winds  of  heaven  blowing  over  moors  and  mosses,  cornfields  and 
meadows  beautiful  as  the  blue  skies  themselves  ;  and  if  you  call 
that  low  company,  you  had  better  fling  your  copy  of  Burns, 
Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  Mary  in  Heaven,  and  all,  into  the  fire. 
Me,  the  noblest  peasant  that  ever  trod  the  greensward  of  Scot- 
kind,  kept  the  society  of  other  peasants,  whose  nature  was  like 
his  own  ;  and  then,  were  the  silken-snooded  maidens  whom  he 
wooed  on  lea-rig  and  'mang  the  rfgs  o'  barley,  were  they  who 
inspired  at  once  his  love  and  his  genius,  his  passion  and  his 
poetry,  till  the  whole  land  of  Coila  overflowed  with  his  immortal 
song,— ;-so  that  now  to  the  proud  native's  ear  every  stream  mur- 
murs a  music  not  its  own,  given  it  by  sweet  Robin's  lays,  and 
the  1-ark  more  lyrical  than  ever  seems  singing  his  songs  at  the 
gates  of  heaven  for  the  shepherd's  sake,  as  through  his  half, 
closed  hand  he  eyes  the  musical  mote  in  the  sunshine,  and 
remembers  him  who  "  sung  her  new-wakened  by  the  daisy's 
side," — were  they,  the  blooming  daughters  of  Scotia,  we  de- 
mand of  you  on  peril  of  your  life,  low  company  and  unworthy 
of  Robert  Burns  ? 

As  to  the  charge  of  liking  to  be  what  is  vulgarly  called  "  cock 
of  the  company,"  what  does  that  mean  when  brougiit  against 
such  a  man  ?  In  what  company,  pray,  could  not  Burns,  had  he 
chosen  it,  and  he  ol'ten  did  choose  it,  have  easily  been  the  first  ? 
No  need  had  he  to  crow  among  dunghills.  If  you  liken  iiim  to 
a  bird  at  all,  lot  it  be  the  eagle,  or  the  nightingale,  or  the  bird 
of  Paradise.  James  Montgomery  has  done  this  in  some  exqui- 
site verses,  which  are  clear  in  our  heart,  but  indistinct  in  our 
memory,  and  therefore  we  cannot  adorn  our  pages  with  tiicir 
beauty.  The  truth  is,  that  Burns,  thougli  when  his  heart 
huiiH'd  within  him,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  men  that  ever 
set  the  table  in  a  roar  or  a  hush,  was  always  a  modest,  often 
a  .silent  man,  and  he  would  sit  for  hours  togetlier,  even  in  com- 
{)any,  with  his  broad  forehead  on  his  ha'nd,  and  his  large  lamp- 
ing eyes  sobered  and  tamed,  in  profound  and  melancholy  thought. 
'J'hen  his  .soul  would  "spring  upwards  like  a  pyramid  of  fire'," 
and  send  "illumination  into  dark  deep  holds,"  or  brighten  the 
brightest  hour  in  which  Feeling  and  Fancy  ever  flung  their 
united  radiance  over  the  common  ongoings  of  tnis  our  conmicr- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  49 

place  world  and  every-day  life.  Was  this  the  man  to  desire, 
with  low  longings  and  base  aspirations,  to  shine  among  the  ob- 
scure, or  rear  his  haughty  front  and  giant  stature  among  pig- 
mies ?     He  who 

"  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy, 
Following  his  plough  upon  the  mountain-side ;" 

he  who  sat  in  glory  and  in  joy  at  the  festal  board,  when  mirtl- 
and  wine  did  most  abound,  and  strangers  were  strangers  lo  more 
within  the  fascination  of  his  genius,  for 

"  One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin  ;" 

or  dt  the  frugal  board,  surrounded  by  his  wife  and  children,  and 
servants,  lord  and  master  of  his  own  happy  and  industrious 
\xome — the  frugal  meal,  preceded  and  followed  by  thanksgiving 
to  the  Power  that  spread  his  table  in  the  barren  places  ? 

Show  us  any  series  of  works  in  prose  or  verse,  in  which 
man's  being  is  so  illustrated  as  to  lay  it  bare  and  open  ^or  the 
benefit  of  man,  and  the  chief  pictures  they  contain,  drawn  from 
"select  society."  There  are  none  such;  and  lor  this  reason, 
that  in  such  society  there  is  neither  power  to  paint  them,  nor 
materials  to  be  painted,  nor  colors  to  lay  on,  till  the  canvas  shal. 
speak  a  language  which  all  the  worW  as  it  runs  may  read. 
What,  would  Scott  have  been,  had  he  not  loved  and  known  the 
people  ?  What  would  his  works  have  been,  had  they  not  shown 
tiie  many-colored  character  of  the  people  ?  What  would  Shak- 
speare  have  been,  had  he  not  often  turned  majestically  from  kings, 
and  "lords  and  dukes  and  mighty  earls,"  to  their  subjects  and 
vassals  and  lowly  bondsmen,  and  "  counted  the  beatings  of  lonely 
hearts"  in  the  obscure  but  impassioned  life  that  stirs  every  nook 
of  this  earth  where  human  beings  abide  ?  What  would  Words- 
worth have  been,  had  he  disdained,  with  liis  high  intellect  and 
imagination,  "  to  stoop  his  anointed  head"  beneath  the  wooden 
lintel  of  the  poor  man's  door?  His  Lyrical  Ballads,  "  with  all 
the  innocent  brightness  of  the  new-born  day,"  liad  never 
charmed  tlie  meditative  heart.  Plis  "  Cliurcli-Yard  among  the 
Mountains"  had  never  taught  men  how  to  live  and  how  to  die. 


no  THE  GENIUS  AND 


These  are  men  who  have  descended  from  aerial  heiglits  into  the 
humhlest  dwellings;  who  have  shown  the  angel's  wing  equally 
when  poised  near  the  earth,  and  floating  over  its  cottaged  vales, 
fts  when  seen  sailing  on  high  through  the  clouds  and  azure 
depth  of  heaven,  or  hanging  over  the  towers  and  temples  of 
great  cities.  They  shunned  not  to  parley  with  the  blind  beggar 
by  the  way-side  ;  they  knew  how  to  transmute,  by  divinest  al- 
chemy, the  base  metal  into  the  fine  gold.  Whatever  company 
of  human  beings  they  have  mingled  with,  they  lend  it  colors, 
and  did  not  receive  its  shades ;  and  hence  their  mastery  over  the 
"  wide  soul  of  the  world  dreaming  of  things  to  come."  Burns 
was  born,  bred,  lived,  and  died  in  that  condition  of  this  mortal 
life  to  which  they  paid  but  visits;  his  heart  lay  wholly  there; 
and  that  heart,  filled  as  it  was  with  all  the  best  human  feelings, 
and  sometimes  with  thoughts  divine,  had  no  fears  about  entering 
into  places  which  timid  moralists  might  have  'lought  forbiddt  n 
and  unhallowed  ground,  but  which  he,  wiser  far,  knew  to  be 
inhabited  by  creatures  of  conscience,  bound  there  often  in  thick 
darkness  by  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  God. 

For  a  year  and  more  after  the  publication  of  the  Edinburgh 
Edition,  Burns  led  a  somewhat  roving  life,  till  his  final  settlement 
with  Creech.  He  had  a  right  to  enjoy  himself;  and  it  does  not 
appear  that  there  was  much  to  blame  in  his  conduct  either  in 
town  or  country,  though  lie  did  not  live  upon  air  nor  yet  upon 
water.  There  was  much  dissipation  in  those  days — much  hard 
drinking — in  select  as  well  as  in  general  society,  in  the  best  as 
well  as  in  the  worst ;  and  he  had  his  share  of  it  in  many  cir- 
cles— but  never  in  the  lowest.  His  associates  were  all  honor- 
able men,  then,  and  in  after  life;  and  he  left  the  Capital  in  pos- 
session .of  the  respect  of  its  most  illustrious  citizens.  Of  his 
various  tours  and  excursions  there  is  little  to  be  said  ;  the  birth- 
places of  old  Scottish  Songs  he  visited  in  the  spirit  of  a  religious  pil- 
grim ;  and  his  poetical  fervor  was  kindhMl  by  the  grandeur  of  the 
Highlands.  He  had  said  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "I  have  no  dearer 
aim  than  to  have  it  in  my  power,  unplagued  with  the  routine  of 
business,  for  which,  heaven  knows!  I  am  unfit  enough,  to  make 
leisurely  pilgrimages  through  Caledonia  ;  to  sit  on  the  fields  of 
her  battles,  to  wander  on  the  romantic  banks  of  her  rivers,  and 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  51 

to  muse  by  the  stately  towers  or  venerable  ruins,  once  thi 
honored  abodes  of  her  heroes.  But  tliese  are  all  Utopian 
thoughts;  I  have  dallied  long  enough  with  life;  'tis  time  to  be 
in  earnest.  I  have  a  fond,  and  aged  mother  to  care  for,  and 
some  other  bosom  ties  perhaps  equally  tender.  Where  the  indi- 
vidual only  suffei's  by  the' consequences  of  his  own  thoughtless- 
less,  indolence,  or  folly,  he  may  be  excusable,  nay,  shining  abili 
ties,  and  some  of  the  nobler  virtues,  may  half  sanctify  a  heed- 
less character  :  but  where  God  and  nature  have  intrusted  the 
welfare  of  others  to  iiis  care,  where  the  trust  is  sacred,  and  the 
ties  ai'e  dear,  that  man  must  be  far  gone  in  selfishness,  oi 
strangely  lost  to  reflection,  whom  these  connections  will  not  rouse 
to  exertion." 

Burns  has  now  got  liberated,  for  ever,  from  "stately  Edin- 
borough  throned  on  crags,"  the  favored  abode  of  philosophy  and 
fashion,  law  and  literature,  reason  and  refinement,  and  has  re- 
turned again  into  his  own  natural  condition,  neither  essentially 
the  better  nor  the  worse  of  his  city  life ;  the  same  man  he  was 
when  "  the  poetic  genius  of  his  country  found  him  at  the  plough 
and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  him."  And  what  was  he 
now  to  do  with  himself?  Into  what  occupation  for  the  rest  of 
liis  days  was  he  to  settle  down  ?  It  would  puzzle  the  most  saga- 
cious even  now,  fifty  years  after  the  event,  to  say  what  he  ought 
to  have  done  that  he  did  not  do  at  that  juncture,  on  which  for 
weal  or  wo  the  future  must  have  been  so  deeply  felt  by  him  to 
depend.  And  perhaps  it  might  not  have  occurred  to  every  one 
of  the  many  prudent  persons  who  have  lamented  over  his  follies, 
had  he  stood  in  Burns's  shoes,  to  make  over,  unconditionally,  to 
his  brother  one  half  of  all  he  was  worth.  Gilbert  was  resolved 
still  to  struggle  on  with  Mossgiel,  and  Robert  said,  "  there  is  my 
purse."  The  brothers,  diffurent  as  they  were  in  the  constitution 
of  their  souls,  had  one  and  the  same  heart.  They  loved  one 
another — man  and  boy  alike  ;  and  the  survivor  cleared,  with 
pious  hands,  the  weeds  from  his  brother's  grave.  There  was  a 
blessing  in  that  two  hundred  pounds — and  thirty  years  after- 
w-ards  Gilbert  repaid  it  witli  interest  to  Robert's  widow  and  chil- 
dren, by  an  Edition  in  which  he  wiped  away  stains  from  the 
reputation  of  his  benefactor,  which  hud  been  stitiered  to  n^iiain 


52  THE  GENIUS  AND 


too  long,  and  some  of  wliicli,  the  most  difTicull  too  to  be  effaced, 
had  been  even  let  fall  from  the  fintrers  of  a  benevolent  bioirra- 
pher  who  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  speak  what  he  most 
mistakenly  believed  to  be  the  truth.  "  Oh  Robert  !  "  was  all 
his  mother  could  say  on  his  return  to  Mossgiel  from  Edinbiirgli. 
In  her  simple  heart  she  was  astonished  at  his  fame,  and  cxxijd 
not  understand  it  well,  any  more  than  she  could  her  own  happi- 
ness and  her  own  pride.  But  his  affection  she  understood  better 
than  he  did,  and  far  better  still  his  generosity ;  and  duly  night 
and  morning  she  asked  a  blessing  on  his  head  from  Him  who 
had  given  her  such  a  son. 

"  BetM'een  the  men  of  rustic  life,"  said  Burns — so  at  least  it 
is  reported — "  and  the  polite  world  I  observed  little  difference, 
in  the  former,  though  unpolished  by  fashion,  and  unenlightened 
by  science,  I  have  found  much  observation  and  much  intelli- 
gence. But  a  refined  and  accomplished  woman  was  a  thing 
altogether  new  to  me,  and  of  which  I  had  formed  but  a  very  in- 
adequate idea."  One  of  his  biographers  seems  to  have  believed 
that  his  love  for  Jean  Armour,  tlie  daughter  of  a  Mauohline 
mason,  must  have  died  away  under  these  more  adequate  ideas 
of  the  sex  along  witii  their  corresponding  emotions;  and  that  he 
now  married  her  with  reluctance.  Only  think  of  Burns  taking 
an  Edinburgh  Belle  to  wife  !     lie  flew,  somewhat  too  fervently, 

"  To  love's  willing  fetters,  the  arms  of  his  Jean  ' 

Her  father  had  aajain  to  curse  her  for  her  infatuated  love  of  her 
husband — for  such  if  nut  by  the  law  of  Scotland — which  may 
be  doubtful — Burns  certainly  was  by  the  law  of  iieaven — and 
like  a  good  Christian  had  again  turned  his  daughter  out  of  doors. 
Had  Burns  deserted  her  he  had  merely  been  a  heartless  villain. 
In  making  her  his  lawful  wedded  wife  he  did  no  more  than  any 
other  man,  diserving  the  name  of  man,  in  the  same  circumstan- 
ces would  have  done;  and  had  he  not,  he  would  have  walked  in 
shame  before  men,  and  in  fear  and  trembling  before  God.  But 
he  did  so,  not  only  because  it  was  his  most  sacred  duty,  but 
because  he  loved  her  better  than  ever,  and  without  her  v.ould 
liave  been  miserable.     Much  had  she  suffered  fur  his  sake,  and 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  53 

he  for  hers;  but  all  that  distraction  and  despair  which  had 
nearly  driven  him  into  a  sugar  plantation,  were  over  and  gone, 
forgotten  utterly,  or  remembered  but  as  a  dismal  dream  endear- 
ing the  placid  day  that  for  ever  dispelled  it.  He  writes  about 
her  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  and  others  in  terms  of  sobriety  and  good 
sense — "  The  most  placid  good  nature  and  sweetness  of  dispo- 
sition ;  a  warm  heart,  gratefully  devoted  willi  all  its  powers  to 
love  me  ;  vigorous  health  and  sprightly  cheerfulness,  set  off  to 
the  best  advantage  by  a  more  than  commonly  handsome  figure" 
— these  he  thought  in  a  woman  misht,  with  a  knowledire  of  the 
scriptures,  make  a  good  wife.  During  the  few  months  he  was 
getting  his  house  ready  foi*  her  at  EUisland  he  frequently  trav- 
elled, with  all  the  fondness  of  a  lover,  the  long  wilderness  of 
moors  to  Mauchline,  where  she  was  in  the  house  of  her  austere 
father  reconciled  to  her  at  last.  And  thoui^h  he  has  told  us  that 
if  was  his  custom,  in  song-writing,  to  keep  the  image  of  some 
fair  maiden  before  the  eye  of  his  fancy,  "  some  bright  particular 
3tar,"  and  that  H3-men  was  not  the  divinity  he  then  invoked,  yet 
it  was  on  one  of  these  visits,  between  EUisland  and  Mossgiel, 
that  he  penned  under  such  homely  inspiration  as  precious  a  love- 
offering  as  genius  in  the  passion  of  hope  ever  laid  in  a  virgin's 
bosom.  His  wife  sung  it  to  him  that  same  evening — and  indeed 
he  never  knew  whether  or  no  he  had  succeeded  in  any  one  of 
his  lyrics,  till  he  heard  his  words  and  the  air  together  from  her 
voice. 

"  Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west. 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row. 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

"  I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 
I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 
There's  not  a  bonny  flower  that  springs. 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green. 


54  THE  GENIUS  AND 


There's  not  a  bonny  bird  that  shigs, 
But  minds  ine  o'  my  Jean. 

"  Oh  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees, 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale. 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees  ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean ; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

"  What  sighs  and  vows  among  the  knowes 

Hae  passed  atween  us  twa ! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part. 

That  night  she  gaed  awa  ! 
The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken. 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen. 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean." 

And  here  we  ask  you  who  may  be  reading  these  pages,  to  pause 
for  a  little,  and  consider  with  yourselves,  what  up  to  this  time 
Burns  had  done  to  justify  tlie  condemnatory  judgments  that  have 
been  passed  on  his  character  as  a  man  by  so  many  admirers  of  his 
o-enius  as  a  poet!  Compared  with  men  of  ordinary  worth,  who 
have  deservedly  passed  through  life  with  the  world's  esteem,  in 
wliat  was  it  lamentably  wanting?  Not  m  tenderness,  warmth, 
strength  of  the  natural  affections;  and  they  are  good  till  turned 
to  evil.  Not  in  the  duties  for  which  they  were  given,  and  which 
they  make  delights.  Of  which  of  these  duties  was  he  habit- 
ually neglectful  ?  To  the  holiest  of  them  all  ne.xt  to  piety  to 
his  Maker,  he  was  faithful  beyond  most — few  better  kept  the 
fourth  commandment.  His  youth,  tiiough  soon  too  impassioned, 
had  been  long  pure.  If  he  were  temperate  by  necessity  and 
not  nature,  yet  he  was  so  as  contentedly  as  if  it  had  been  by 
ciioice.  He  had  lived  on  meal  and  water  witli  some  milk,  be- 
cause tlic  family  were  too  poor  for  better  fare  ;  and  yet  he 
rose  to  labor  as  the  lark  rises  to  sing. 

In  the  corruption  of  our  fallen  nature  he  sinned,  and,  it  lias 
been  said,  became  a  libertine.  Was  he  ever  guilty  of  deliber- 
ate seduction  ?     It  is  not  so  recorded  ;  and  we  believe  his  whole 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


soul  would  liave  recoiled  from  sucli  wickedness  :  but  let  us  not 
affect  ignorance  of  what  we  all  know.  Among  no  people  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  is  the  moral  code  so  rigid,  willi  regard  to  the 
intercourse  of  the  sexes,  as  to  stamp  with  ineffaceable  disgrace 
every  lapse  from  virtue  ;  and  certainly  not  among  the  Scottish 
peasantry,  austere  as  the  spirit  of  religion  has  always  been,  and 
terrible  ecclesiastical  censure.  Hateful  in  all  eyes  is  the  re- 
probate— the  hoary  sinner  loathsome  ;  but  many  a  grey  head  is 
now  deservedly  reverenced  that  would  not  be  so,  wei-e  the  mem- 
ory of  all  that  has  been  repented  by  the  Elder,  and  pardoned 
unto  him,  to  rise  up  against  him  among  the  congregation  as  he 
entered  the  Flouse  of  God.  There  has  been  many  a  rueful  tra- 
gedy in  houses  that  in  after  times  "  seemed  asleep."  How  many 
good  and  happy  fatiiers  of  families,  who,  were  all  their  past  lives 
to  be  pictured  in  ghastly  revelation  to  the  eyes  of  their  wives 
and  children,  could  never  again  dare  to  look  them  in  the  face ! 
It  pleased  God  to  give  them  a  long  life  ;  and  they  have  escaped, 
not  by  their  own  strength,  far  away  from  the  shadows  of  their 
misdeeds  that  are  not  now  suffered  to  pursue  them,'  but  are 
chained  down  in  the  past,  no  more  to  be  let  loose.  That  such 
things  were,  is  a  secret  none  now  live  to  divulge ;  and  though 
once  known,  they  were  never  emblazoned.  But  Burns  and  men 
like  Burns  showed  the  whole  world  their  dark  spots  by  the  very 
light  of  their  genius;  and  having  died  in  what  may  almost  be 
called  their  youth,  there  the  dark  spots  still  are,  and  men  point 
to  them  with  their  fingers,  to  whose  eyes  there  may  seem  but 
small  glory  in  all  that  effulgence. 

Burns  now  took  possession  at  Whitsuntide  (1788)  of  the  farm 
of  Ellisland,  while  his  wife  remained  at  Mossgiel,  completing 
her  education  in  the  dairy,  till  brought  home  next  term  to  their 
new  house,  which  the  poet  set  a-building  with  alacrity,  on  a  plan 
of  his  own,  which  was  as  simple  a  one  as  could  be  devised  : 
kitchen  and  dining  room  in  one,  a  double-bedded  room  with  a 
bed-closet,  and  a  garret.  Tiie  site  was  pleasant,  on  the  edge  of 
a  hiiih  bank  of  the  Nith,  commanding  a  wide  and  beautiful 
prospect, — holms,  plains,  woods,  and  hills,  and  a  long  reach  of 
the  sweeping  river.  While  the  house  and  offices  were  growing, 
he  inhabited  a  liovcl  close  at  hand,  and  though  occasionally  giv- 


66  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ing  vent  to  some  splenetic  humors  in  letters  indited  in  his  sooty 
cabin,  and  now  and  then  yielding  to  fits  of  despondency  about 
the  "  ticklish  situation  of  a  family  of  children,"  he  says  to  his 
friend  Ainslie,  "  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  .the  step  I  have 
taken  is  vastly  for  my  happiness."  He  had  to  quali-fy  himself 
for  holding  his  excise  commission  by  six  weeks'  attendance  on 
the  business  of  that  profession  at  Ayr — and  we  have  seen  that 
he  made  several  visits  lo  Mossgiel.  Currie  cannot  let  him  thus 
pass  the  summer  without  moralizing  on  his  mode  of  life. 
"  Pleased  with  surveying  the  grounds  he  was  about  to  cultivate, 
and  with  the  rearing  of  a  building  that  should  give  shelter  to  his 
wife  and  children,  and,  as  he  fondly  hoped,  to  his  own  grey 
hairs,  sentiments  of  independence  buoyed  up  his  mind,  pictures 
of  domestic  comfort  and  peace  rose  on  his  imagination  ;  and  a 
feio  days  passed  away,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  the  most  tran- 
quil, if  not  the  happiest,  which  he  had  ever  experienced."  Let 
us  believe  that  such  days  were  not  few,  but  many,  and  that  we 
need  not  join  with  the  good  Doctor  in  grieving  to  think  that 
Burns  led  all  the  summer  a  wandering  and  unsettled  life.  It 
could  not  be  stationary  ;  but  there  is  no  reason  to  think  that 
his  occasional  absence  was  injurious  to  his  afiairs  on  the  farm. 
Currie  writes  as  if  he  thought  him  incapable  of  self-guidance, 
and  says,  "  It  is  to  be  lamented  that  at  tiiis  critical  period  of 
his  life,  our  poet  was  without  the  society  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  his  situation  ;  his  old 
habits  were  broken ;  and  the  new  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed,  were  calculated  to  give  a  new  direction  to  hi.: 
thoughts  and  conduct.  But  his  application  to  the  cares  and  la 
bors  of  his  farm  was  interrupted  by  several  visits  to  his  family 
in  Ayrshire  ;  and  as  the  distance  was  too  great  for  a  siiig^e  day's 
journey,  he  generally  slept  a  night  at  an  inn  on  the  road.  On 
such  occasions  he  sometimes  fell  into  company,  and  forgot  the 
resolutions  he  had  formed.  In  a  little  while  temptation  assailed 
him  nearer  home."  This  is  treating  Burns  like  a  child,  a  per- 
son of  so  facile  a  disposition  as  not  to  be  trusted  without  a 
keeper  on  the  king's  high-way.  If  he  was  not  fit  to  ride  by 
himself  into  Ayrshire,  and  there  was  no  safety  for  him  at  San- 
quhar,  his  case  was  hopeless  out  of  an  asylum.     A  trustwor- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  57 

thy  friend  attended  to  the  farm  as  overseer,  when  he  was  from 
home  ;  potatoes,  grass,  and  grain  grew,  though  he  was  away  ; 
on  September  9th,  we  find  liim  wiiere  he  ought  to  be,  "  I  am 
busy  with  my  harvest;"  and  on  the  16th,  "  Tliis  hovel  that  I 
shelter  in,  is  pervious  to  every  blast  that  blows,  and  every  shower 
that  falls,  and  I  am  only  preserved  from  being  chilled  to  death  by 
being  suffocated  with  smoke.  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that 
I  have  laid  aside  idle  iclat,  and  bind  every  day  after  my  reap- 
ers." Pity  'twas  that  there  had  not  been  a  comfortable  house 
ready  furnished  for  Mrs.  Burns  to  step  into  at  the  beginning  of 
summer,  therein  to  be  brought  to  bed  of  "  little  Frank,  who,  by 
the  by,  I  trust  will  be  no  discredit  to  the  honorable  name  of 
Wallace,  as  he  has  a  fine  manly  countenance,  and  a  figure  that 
might  do  credit  to  a  little  fellow  two  months  older ;  and  likewise 
an  excellent  good  temper,  though  when  he  pleases,  he  has  a  pipe 
not  only  quite  so  loud  as  the  horn  that  his  immortal  namesake 
blew  as  a  signal  to  take  the  pm  out  of  Stirling  bridge.'' 

Dear  good  old  blind  Dr.  Blacklock,  about  this  time,  was  anx- 
ious to  know  from  Burns  himself  how  he  was  thriving,  and  in- 
dited to  him  a  pleasant  epistle. 

"  Dear  Burns,  thou  brother  of  my  heart. 
Both  for  thy  virtues  and  thy  art ; 
If  art  it  may  be  call'd  in  thee. 
Which  Nature's  bounty,  lartje  and  free, 
With  pleasure  in  tliy  heart  diflltses, 
And  warms  thy  soul  with  all  the  Muses. 
Whether  to  lauj;h  with  easy  grace. 
Thy  numbers  move  the  sage's  face, 
Or  bid  the  softer  passions  rise. 
And  ruthless  souls  with  grief  surprise, 
'Tis  Nature's  voice  distinctly  felt 
Through  thee  her  organ,  thus  to  melt. 

"  Most  anxiously  I  wish  to  know, 
With  thee  of  late  how  matters  go ; 
How  keeps  thy  much-loved  Jean  her  health  .' 
What  promises  thy  farm  of  wealth  .' 
Whether  the  muse  persists  to  smile, 
And  all  tliy  anxious  cares  beguile? 
Whether  bright  fancy  keeps  alive? 
And  how  tiiv  darling  infants  thrive?" 


58  THE  GENIUS  AND 


It  appears  from  his  reply,  that  Burns  had  entrusted  Heron 
with  a  letter  to  Blacklock,  which  the  preacher  had  not  delivered, 
and  the  poet  exclaims 

"  The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south  ! 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  ! 
He  tald  mysel  by  word  o'  mouth 

He'd  tak  my  letter ; 
I  lippened  to  the  chiel  in  trouth 

And  bade  nae  better. 

"  But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron, 
•Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one. 
To  ware  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study ; 
And  tir'd  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 
E'en  tried  the  body." 

Currie  says  in  a  note,  "  Mr.  Heron,  author  of  the  History  of 
Scotland  lately  published,  and  among  various  other  works,  of  a 
respectable  life  of  our  poet  himself."  Burns  knew  his  character 
well ;  the  unfortunate  fellow  had  talents  of  no  ordinary  kind; 
and  there  are  many  good  things  and  much  good  writing  in  his 
life  of  Burns;  but  respectable  it  is  not,  basely  calumnious,  and 
the  orioinal  source  of  many  of  the  worst  falsehoods  even  now 

CD  ■> 

believed  too  widely  to  be  truths,  concerning  the  moral  character 
of  a  man  as  far  superior  to  himself  in  virtue  as  in  genius. 
Burns  then  tells  his  venerated  friend,  that  he  has  absolutely  be- 


come a  "-auy-er, 


"  Ye  glaikit,  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 
Wha  by  Castalia's  winipling  streainics, 
Loup,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbics. 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
That  Strang  necessity  supreme  is, 

'Mang  sons  o'  men. 

"  I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 
Tiiey  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o'  duddies ; 
Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  rii^ht  proud  is, 

I  need  na  vaunt. 
But  I'll  sned  besoms — tiiraw  saugh  woodies. 
Before  they  wan 


CHARACTER  Of^  BURNS.  59 


V 


"  Lord  help  me  thro'  Chis  warld  o'  care  ! 
I'm  weary  sick  o't  late  and  air  ! 
Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  share 

Than  mony  ithers ; 
But  why  should  i>e  man  better  fare, 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 

"  Come,  Firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van 
Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man  ! 
And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne'er  wan 

A  lady  fair ; 
Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whiles  do  mair. 

"  But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme 
(I'm  scant  o'  verse,  and  scant  o'  time), 

To  MAKE  A  HAPPY  FIRE-SIDE  CLIME 

To   WEANS   AND  WIFE, 

That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime, 
Of  human  life." 

These  noble  stanzas  were  written  towards  the  end  of  October, 
and  in  another  month  Burns  brouf,rht  his  wife  home  to  Ellisland, 
and  his  three  children,  for  slie  had  twice  borne  him  twins.  The 
happiest  period  of  his  life,  we  have  his  own  words  for  it,  was 
that  winter. 

But  why  not  say  that  the  three  years  he  lived  at  Ellisland 
were  all  happy,  as  happiness  goes  in  this  world  ?  As  happy 
perhaps  as  they  miglit  have  been  had  he  been  placed  in  some 
other  condition  apparently  far  better  adapted  to  yield  him  what 
all  human  hearts  do  most  desire.  His  wife  never  had  an  hour's 
sickness,  and  was  always  cheerful  as  day,  one  of  those 

"  Sound  healthy  children  of  the  God  of  heaven," 

whose  very  presence  is  positive  pleasure,  and  whose  contented- 
ness  with  her  lot  inspires  comfort  into  a  husband's  heart,  when 
at  times  oppressed  with  a  mortal  heaviness  that  no  words  could 
lighten.  Burns  says  with  gloomy  grandeur,  "  There  is  a  foggy 
atmosphere  native  to  my  soul  in  the  hour  of  care  which  makes 
the  dreary  objects  seem  larger  than  life."  The  objects  seen  by 
imagination  ;  and  he  who  suffers  thus  cannot  be  relieved  by  any 


60  THE  GENIUS  AND 

direct  applications  to  that  faculty,  only  by  those  t/iat  touch  the 
heart — the  homelier  the  more  sanative,  and  none  so  sure  as  a 
wife's  affectionate  ways,  quietly  moving  about  the  house  affair.--, 
which,  insignificant  as  they  are  in  themselves,  are  felt  to  be  Ihtlr- 
truthful  realities  that  banish  those  monstrous  phantoms,  showing 
them  to  be  but  glooms  and  shadows. 

And  how  fared  the  Ganger?  Why  he  did  his  work.  Currie 
says,  "  his  farm  no  longer  occupied  the  principal  part  of  his 
care  or  his  thoua;hts.  It  was  not  at  Ellisland  that  he  was  now 
in  general  to  be  found.  Mounted  on  horseback,  this  high-mind- 
ed poet  was  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue  among  the 
hills  and  vales  of  Nithsdale ;  his  roving  eye  wandering  over 
the  charms  of  nature,  and  muttering  his  wayward  fancies  as  he 
moved  along."  And  many  a  happy  day  he  had  when  thu"? 
riding  about  the  country  in  search  of  smugglers  of  all  sorts, 
zealous  against  all  manner  of  contraband.  He  delighted  in  ti\e 
broad  brow  of  the  day,  whether  glad  or  gloomy,  like  his  owii 
forehead  ;  in  the  open  air  whether  still  or  stormy,  like  his  own 
heart.  "  While  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue,"  a 
tjauger  has  not  always  to  track  them  by  his  eyes  or  his  nose. 
Information  has  been  lodged  of  their  whereabout,  and  he  delibe- 
rately makes  a  seizure.  Sentimentalists  may  see  in  this  some- 
thing very  shocking  to  the  delicate  pleasures  of  susceptible 
minds,  but  Burns  did  not ;  and  some  of  his  sweetest  lyrics,  re- 
dolent of  the  liquid  dew  of  youth,  were  committed  to  whitey- 
brown  not  scented  by  the  rose's  attar.  Burns  on  duty  was 
always  as  sober  as  a  judge.  A  man  of  his  sense  knew  better 
than  to  muddle  his  brains,  when  it  was  needful  to  be  quick-witted 
and  ready-handed  too  ;  for  he  had  to  do  with  old  women  who 
were  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  and  middle-aged  men  who  could  use 
both  club  and  cutlass. 

"  He  held  them  with  his  glittering  eye;" 

but  his  f'.etermined  character  was  not  the  worse  of  beino-  ex- 
hibited  on  broad  shoulders.  They  drooped,  as  you  know,  but 
from  the  habils  of  a  strong  man  who  had  been  a  laborer  from 
his  youth  upwards,  and  a  ganger's  life  was  the  very  one  that 
might  have  b,ien  prescribed  to  a  man  like  him,  subject  to  low 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  CI 

spirits,  by  a  wise  physician.  Smugglers  themselves  are  seldom 
drunkards — ga'jgers  not  often — though  they  take  their  dram  ; 
your  drunkards  belong  to  that  comprehensive  class  that  cheat 
the  excise. 

Then  Burns  was  not  always  "  mounted  on  horseback  pursu- 
it)g  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue  among  the  hills  and  vales  of 
Nithsdale  ;"  he  sat  sometimes  by  himself  in  Friar's-Carse  Her- 
mitage. 

"  Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, — 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed. 
Be  thou  deck't  in  silken  stole. 
Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

"  Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 
Hope  not  sunshine  ev'ry  hour. 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

"  As  the  shades  of  ev'ning  close, 
Beck'ning  thee  to  long  repose  ; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 
Seek  the  chimney-neuk  of  ease. 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought. 
On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought ; 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 
Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estimate. 
The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate. 
Is  not.  Art  thou  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow .' 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  r 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  .' 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind. 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  fmd, 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  heav'n. 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv'n. 
Say  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways. 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile  and  base 

^'  Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep, 


02  THE  GENIUS  AKD 

Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake, 
Nifiht,  where  dawn  shall  never  break, 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 
To  light  and  joy  tlie  good  restore, 
To  light  and  joy  unknown  before 

"  Stranger,  go.    Heav'n  be  thy  guide  ! 
Quod  the  beadsman  of  Xith-side." 

Burns  acquired  the  friendship  of  many  of  the  best  families 
in  the  vale  of  Nith,  at  Friar's  Carse,  Terraughty,  Blackwood, 
Closeburn,  Dalswinton,  Glenae,  Kirkconnel,Arbigland,  and  other 
scats  of  the  gentry  old  or  new.  Such  society  was  far  more  en- 
joyable than  that  of  Edinburgh,  for  here  he  was  not  a  lion  but  a 
man.  He  had  his  jovial  hours,  and  sometimes  they  were  exces- 
sive, as  the  whole  world  knows  from  "  the  Song  of  the  Whistle." 
But  the  Laureate  did  not  enter  the  lists — if  he  had,  it  is  possible 
he  might  have  conquered  Craigdarroch.  These  were  formida- 
ble orgies ;  but  we  have  heard  "  Oh  !  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o' 
maut,"  sung  after  a  presbytery  dinner,  the  bass  of  the  modera- 
tor  sivinjj  somewhat  of  a  solemn  character  to  the  chorus.    . 

But  why  did  Burns  allow  his  genius  to  lie  idle — why  did  he 
not  construct  some  great  work,  such  as  a  Drama?  His  genius 
did  not  lie  idle,  for  over  and  above  the  songs  alluded  to,  he  wrote 
ever  so  many  for  his  friend  Johnson's  Museum.  Nobody  would 
have  demanded  from  him  a  Drama,  had  he  not  divulged  his  de- 
termination to  compose  one  about  "The- Bruce,"  with  the 
homely  title  of  "  Rob  M'Quechan's  Elshin."  But  Burns  did 
not  think  himself  an  universal  genius,  and  at  this  time  writes, 
"  No  man  knows  what  nature  has  fitted  him  for  till  he  try ;  and 
if  after  a  preparatory  course  of  some  years'  study  of  men  and 
books  I  shall  find  myself  unequal  to  the  task,  there  is  no  harm 
done.  Virtue  and  study  are  their  own  reward.  I  have  got 
Shakspeare,  and  begun  with  him,"  &c.  He  knew  that  a  great 
National  Dz'ama  was  not  to  be  produced  as  easily  as  "The  Cot- 
tar's Saturday  Night ;"  and  says,  "though  the  rough  material 
of  fine  writing  is  undoubtedly  the  gift  of  genius,  the  workman- 
ship is  as  certainly  the  united  efforts  of  labor,  attention,  and 
pains." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  63 

And  here,  one  day  between  breakfast  and  dinner  he  composed 
"  Tam  o' Slianter."  The  fact  is  hardly  credible,  but  we  are 
williuo;  to  believe  it.  Dorset  only  corrected  his  famous  "To 
all  ye  ladies  now  on  land,  we  men  at  sea  indite,"  the  nigiit  be- 
fore an  expected  engagement,  a  proof  of  his  self-possession  ;  but 
he  had  been  working  at  it  for  days.  Dryden  dashed  off  his 
"  Alexander's  Feast "  in  no  time,  but  the  labor  of  weeks  was 
bestowed  on  it  before  it  assumed  its  present  shape.  "  Tam  o' . 
Shanter"  is  superior  in  force  and  fire  to  that  Ode.  Never  did 
genius  go  at  such  a  gallop — setting  off  at  score,  and  making 
play,  but  without  whip  or  spur,  from  starting  to  winning  post. 
All  is  inspiration.  His  wife  with  her  weans  a  little  way  aside 
among  the  broom  watched  him  at  work  as  he  was  striding  up 
and  down  the  brow  of  tlie  Scaur,  and  reciting  to  himself  like 
one  demented, 

"  Now  Tam,  0  Tam  !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flanneii. 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  bunder  linen  I 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  Ruid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'n  them  afF  my  hurdles. 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  biu'dies  !" 

His  bonnie  Jean  must  have  been  sorely  perplexed — but  she 
was  familiar  with  all  his  moods,  and  like  a  good  wife  left  him 
to  his  cogitations.  It  is  "  all  made  out  of  the  builder's  brain  ;" 
for  the  story  that  suggested  it  is  no  story  after  all,  the  dull  lie  of 
a  drunkard  dotard.  From  the  poet's  imagination  it  came  forth 
a  perfect  poem,  impregnated  with  the  native  spirit  of  Scottish 
superstition.  Few  or  none  of  our  old  traditionary  tales  of 
witches  are  very  appalling — they  had  not  their  origin  in  the 
depths  of  the  people's  heart — there  is  a  meanness  in  their  mys- 
teries— the  ludicrous  mixes  with  the  horrible — much  matter 
there  is  for  the  poetical,  and  more  perhaps  for  the  picturesque — 
but  the  pathetic  is  seldom  found  there — and  never — for  Shaks- 
peare  we  fear  was  not  a  Scotsman — the  sublime.  Let  no  man 
therefore  find  fault  with  "  Tam  o'  Shanter,"  because  it  strikes  not 


64  •  THE  GENIUS  AND 


a  deeper  chord.  It  strikes  a  chord  that  twangs  strangely,  and  we 
know  not  well  what  it  means.  To  vulgar  eyes,  too,  were  such 
unaccountable  on-goings  most  often  I'evealed  of  old  :  such  seers 
were  generally  doited  or  dazed — half  born  idiots  or  neerdoweels 
in  drink.  Had  Milton's  Satan  shown  his  face  in  Scotland,  folk 
either  would  not  have  known  him,  or  thought  him  mad.  The 
devil  is  much  indebted  to  Burns  for  having  raised  his  cliaracter 
without  impairing  his  individuality — . 

"  0  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an'  sootie. 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brurnstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches. 

"  Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be  ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie. 
E'en  to  a  de'tl. 
To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me. 
An'  hear  us  squeel  ?" 

This  is  conciliatory ;  and  we  think  we  see  him  smile.  We 
can  almost  believe  for  a  moment,  that  it  does  give  him  no  great 
pleasure,  that  he  is  not  inaccessible  to  pity,  and  at  times  would 
fain  devolve  his  duty  upon  other  hands,  though  we  cannot  expect 
him  to  resign.  The  poet  knows  that  he  is  the  Prince  of  the 
Air. 

"  Great  is  thy  pow'r  an'  great  tliy  fame  ; 
Far  kend  and  noted  is  thy  name  ; 
An'  tho'  yon  lowiri  heugh's  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far ; 
An'  faith  !  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame. 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

"  Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roarin  lion. 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin' ^ 
Whyles  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin', 

Tirling  the  kirks; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  prying, 

Unseen  thou  lurks ' 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  M 


That  is  mairnificcnt — Milton's  self  would  have  thoujrht  so — 
and  it  could  have  been  written  by  no  man  w  ho  iuid  not  studied 
scripture.  The  Address  is  seen  to  take  ;  the  Old  Intrusionist  is 
jrlorified  by  "  tirling  the  kirks;  "  and  the  poet  thinks  it  rigiit  to 
lower  his  pride. 

"  Tve  heard  my  reverend  Graiviic  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray  : 
Or  where  auld-ruin'd  castles,  grey, 

Nod  to  the  moon, 
Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way, 

Wi'  eldritch  croon. 

"  When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon 
To  say  her  prayers,  douce,  honest  woman  ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi'  eerie  drone  ; 
Or,  rustlin'  through  the  boortrees  comia' 
Wi'  heavy  groan. 

"  Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 
The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentia'  light, 
Wi'  you,  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright, 

Ayont  the  lough ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sugh." 

Throughout  the  whole  Address,  the  elements  are  so  combined 
in  him,  as  to  give  the  world  "  assurancp  o'  a  deil ;  "  but  then  it 
is  the  Deil  of  Scotland. 

Just  so  in  "  Tarn  o'  Shantcr."    We  know  not  what  some  jjreat 

German  genius  like  Goethe  might  have   made  of  him ;   but  we 

much  mistake  the  matter,  if  "  Tarn   o'  Shanter"   at  Alloway 

Kirk  be  not  as  exemplary  a   piece  of  humanity  as  Faustus  on 

May-day  Night  upon  the  Hartz  Mountains.    Faust  does  not  well 

know  what  he  would  be  at,  but  Tam  does ;  and  though  his  views 

of  human  life  be  rather  hazy,  he  has  glimpses  given  him  of  the 

invisible  world.     His  wife — but  her  tongue  was  no  scandal — 

calls  him 

"  A  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober. 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller  ; 


66  THE  GENIUS  AND 


That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on, 

That  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  \vi'  Kirton  Jean  till  iVIonday. 

She  prophesy'd,  tliat  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon ; 

Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk." 

That  is  her  view  of  the  subject ;  but  what  is  Tarn's  ?  The  same 
as  Wordsworth's, — "  He  sits  down  to  his  cups,  while  the  storm 
is  roaring,  and  heaven  and  earth  are  in  confusion  ;  the  night  is 
driven  on  by  song  and  tumultuous  noise;  laughter  and  jests 
thicken  as  the  beverage  improves  upon  the  palate;  conjugal 
fidelity  archly  bends  to  the  service  of  general  benevolence;  sel- 
fishness is  not  absent,  but  wearing  the  mask  of  social  cordiality  ; 
and  while  these  various  elements  of  humanity  are  blended  into 
one  proud  and  happy  composition  of  elated  spirits,  the  anger  of 
the  tempest  vyithout  doors  only  heightens  and  sets  olf  the  enjoy- 
ment within.  I  pity  him  who  cannot  perceive  that,  in  all  this, 
though  there  was  no  moral  purpose,  there  is  a  moral  effect. 

'  Kings  may  be  blest  but  Tarn  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  of  life  victorious.' 

What  a  lesson  do  these  words  convey  of  charitable  indulgence 
for  the  vicious  habits  of  the  principal  actor  in  the  scene  and  of 
those  who  resemble  him  !  Men  who,  to  the  rigidly  virtuous,  are 
objects  almost  of  loathing,  and  whom  therefore  they  cannot 
serve.  Tlie  poet,  penetrating  the  unsightly  and  disgusting  sur- 
faces of  things,  has  unveiled,  with  e.xquisite  skill,  the  finer  ties 
of  imagination  and  feeling  that  often  bind  those  beings  to  prac- 
tices productive  of  much  unhappiness  to  themselves  and  to  those 
whom  it  is  their  duty  to  cherish  ;  and  as  far  as  he  jjuts  the  reader 
into  possession  of  this  intelligent  sympathy,  he  qualifies  him  for 
exercising  a  salutary  infiuence  over  the  minds  of  those  who  are 
thus  deplorably  deceived." 

We  respectfully  demur  from  the  opinion  of  this  wise  and  be- 
nign judge,  that  "  there  was  no  moral  purpose  in  all  this,  though 
there  is  a  moral  effect."     So  strong   was  his  moral  purpose  and 


CHARACTER   OF  BURNS.  67 

so  deep  the  moral  feeling  moved  within  him  by  the  picture  he 
had  so  vividly  imagined,  that  Burns  pauses,  in  highest  moral 
mood,  at  the  finishing  touch, 

"  Kings  may  be  blest  but  Tam  was  glorious  ;  " 

and  then,  by  imagery  of  unequalled  loveliness,  illustrates  an 
universal  and  everlastinji  truth: 


o 


"  But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed 
Or  like  the  snovv-lalls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  tlieir  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 
Evanishing;  amid  the  storm." 


'o 


Next  instant  he  returns  to  Tarn  ;  and,  humanized  by  that  ex- 
quisite poetry,  we  cannot  help  being  sorry  for  him  "  mountin'  his 
beast  in  sic  a  night."  At  the  first  clap  of  thunder  he  forgets 
Souter  Johnny — how  "conjugal  fidelity  archly  bent  to  the  ser- 
vice of  general  benevolence  " — such  arc  the  terms  in  which  the 
philosophical  Wordsworth  speaks  of 

"  The  landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious  ; 
Wi'  favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  :" 

and  as  the  haunted  Ruin  draws  nigh,  lie  remembers  not  only 
Kate's  advice  but  her  prophecy.  He  has  passed  by  some  fear- 
ful places ;  at  the  slightest  touch  of  the  necromancer,  how  fast 
one  after  another  wlieels  by,  telling  at  what  a  rate  Tam  rode  ! 
And  we  forget  tliat  we  are  not  riding  behind  him, 

"When,  iilimmoring  tliro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  scem'd  in  a  bleeze  !" 

We  defy  any  man  of  woman  born  to  tell  us  who  these  witches 
and  warlocks  are,  and  why  the  devil  brought  them  liere  into 
AUoway-Kirk.     True 

"This  ni<;ht  a  child  miy;ht  understand. 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand;" 


68  THE  GENIUS  AND 


but  that  is  not  the  question — the  question  is  what  business  ? 
Was  it  a  ball  given  him  on  the  anniversary  of  the  Fall  ? 

"There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge :" 

and  pray  wlio  is  to  pay  the  piper  ?  We  fear  that  young  witch 
Nannie ! 

"For  Satan  glow'r'd,  and  fidged  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main :" 

and  this  may  be  the  nuptial  night  of  the  Prince — for  that  tyke 
is  he — of  the  Fallen  Angels ! 

How  was  Tarn  able  to  stand  the  sight,  "  glorious  and  heroic" 
as  he  was,  of  the  open  presses  ? 

"  Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  tlieir  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  slight. 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light." 

Because  show  a  man  some  sight  that  is  altogether  miraculously 
dreadful,  and  he  either  faints  or  feels  no  fear.  Or  say  rather, 
let  a  man  stand  the  first  glower  at  it,  and  he  will  make  compar- 
atively  light  of  the  details.  There  was  Auld  Nick  himself, 
there  was  no  mistaking  him,  and  there  were 

"  Wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Riij;woodie  ha^s  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Low[)ing  an'  flinging — " 

to  such  dancing  what  cared  Tam  who  held  the  candle  ?  He 
was  bedevilled,  bewarlocked  and  bewitched,  and  therefore 

"  Able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 
Twa  span-hing,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns; 
A  tiiief,  ncw-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted  , 
Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  69 

A  gavter,  which  a  babe  had  stransiled  ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft." 

This  collection  has  all  the  effect  of  a  selection.  The  bodies 
were  not  placed  there ;  but  following  each  other's  heels,  they 
stretched  themselves  out  of  their  own  accord  upon  the  haly  ta- 
ble.  They  had  received  a  summons  to  tlie  festival,  which  mur- 
derer and  murdered  must  obey.  But  mind  ye,  Tarn  could  not 
see  what  you  see.  Who  told  him  that  tkat  garter  had  strangled 
a  babe  ?  That  that  was  a  parricide's  knife  ?  Nobody — and 
that  is  a  flaw.  For  Tam  looks  with  his  bodily  eyes  only,  and 
can  know  only  what  they  show  him  ;  but  Burns  knew  it;  and 
believed  Tam  knew  it  too  ;  and  we  know  it  for  Burns  tells  us, 
and  we  believe  Tam  as  wise  as  ourselves  ;  for  we  almost  turn 
Tam — the  poet  himsc^lf  being  the  only  real  warlock  of  them  all. 

You  know  why  that  Haly  Table  is  so  pleasant  to  the  apples 
of  all  those  evil  eyes  ?  They  feed  upon  the  dead,  not  merely  be- 
cause they  love  wickedness,  but  because  they  inspire  it  into  the 
quick.  Who  ever  murdered  his  father  but  at  the  instigation  of 
tliat  "towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large  ?"  Who  but  for  him 
ever  strangled  her  new-born  child  ?  Scimitars  and  tomahawks! 
Why,  such  weapons  never  were  in  use  in  Scotland.  True. 
But  they  have  long  been  in  use  in  the  wilderness  of  the  western 
world,  and  among  the  orient  cities  of  Mahoun,  and  his  empire 
extends  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

And  here  we  shall  say  a  few  words,  which  perhaps  were  ex- 
pected from  us  when  speaking  a  little  while  ago  of  some  of  iiis 
first  productions,  about  Burns's  humorous  strains,  more  especially 
those  in  which  he  has  sung  the  praises  of  joviality  and  good  fel- 
lowship, as  it  has  been  thought  by  many,  that  in  them  are  con- 
spicuously displayed  not  only  some  striking  qualities  of  his  poet- 
ical genius,  but  likewise  of  his  personal  character.  Among  tiie 
countless  number  of  what  are  called  convivial  songs  floating  in 
our  literature,  how  kw  seem  to  have  been  inspired  by  such  a 
sense  and  spirit  of  social  enjoyment  as  men  can  sympatliizc  with 
in  tiieir  ordinary  moods,  wiicn  withdrawn  from  the  festive  board, 
and  enwafrcd  without  blame  in  the  common  amusements  or  recre- 


70  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ations  of  a  busy  or  studious  life !  The  finest  of  these  few  liave 
been  gracefully  and  gaily  thrown  off,  in  some  mirthful  minute, 
by  Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jonson  and  "the  Rest,"  inebriating  the 
mind  as  with  "divine  gas"  into  sudden  exhilaration  that  passes 
away  not  only  without  headache,  but  with  heartache  for  a  time 
allayed  by  the  sweet  ajjiatus.  In  our  land,  too,  as  in  Greece  of 
old,  genius  has  imbibed  inspiration  from  the  wine-cup,  and  sung 
of  human  life  in  strains  befitting  poets  who  desired  that  their 
foreheads  should  perpetually  be  wreathed  witli  flowers.  But 
putting  aside  them  and  their  little  lyres,  with  some  exceptions, 
how  nauseous  are  the  bacchanalian  sonjrs  of  Merry  England  ! 

On  this  topic  we  but  touch  ;  and  request  you  to  recollect, 
that  there  are  not  half  a  dozen,  if  so  many,  drinking  songs  in 
all  Burns.  "  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut,"  is,  indeed,  the 
chief;  and  you  cannot  even  look  at  it  without  crying,  "O  rare 
Rob  Burns  !"  So  far  from  inducing  you  to  believe  that  the  poet 
was  addicted  to  drinking,  the  freshness  and  fervor  of  its  glee 
convince  you  that  it  came  gushing  out  of  a  healthful  heart,  in 
the  exhilaration  of  a  night  that  needed  not  the  influence  of  the 
flowing  bowl,  which  friendship,  nevertheless,  did  so  frequently 
replenish.  Wordsworth,  who  has  told  the  world  that  he  is  a 
water  drinker,  and  in  tiie  lake  country  he  can  never  be  at  a  loss 
for  his  favorite  beverage,  regards  this  song  with  the  complacency 
of  a  philosopher,  knowing  well  that  it  is  all  a  pleasant  exagge- 
ration ;  and  that  had  the  moon  not  lost  patience  and  gone  to  bed, 
she  would  have  seen  "Rob  and  Allan"  on  their  way  back  to 
Ellisland,  along  the  bold  banks  of  the  Nith,  as  steady  as  a  brace 
of  bishops. 

Of  the  contest  immortalized  in  the  "  Whistle,"'  it  may  be  ob- 
served, that  in  the  course  of  events  it  is  likely  to  be  as  rare  as 
enormous  ;  and  that  as  centuries  intervened  between  Sir  Robert 
Laurie's  victory  over  the  Dane  in  tlie  reign  of  James  VI.,  and 
Craigdarroch's  victory  over  Sir  Robert  Laurie  in  that  of  George 
III'.,  so  centuries,  in  all  Imman  probability,  will  elapse  before 
another  such  l)attle  will  be  lost  and  won.  It  is  not  a  little 
amusing  to  hear  good  Dr.  Currie  on  tiiis  passage  in  the  life  of 
Burns.  In  the  text  of  liis  Memoir  he  says,  speaking  of  the 
poet's  intimacy  with  the  best  families  in  Nithsdale,  "  Tiieir  s  >- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


cial  parties  too  often  seduced  him  from  his  rustic  labors  and  his 
rustic   fare,    overthrew   the   unsteady  fabric    of  his    resolutions, 
and    injlanied  those   propensities    lohich   temperance   might  have 
weakened,  and  prudence  ultimateli/  suppressed.'^     In   a   note  he 
adds  in   illustration,   "The  poem  of  tiie   WHiistle   celebrates  a 
bacchanalian  event  among  the  gentlemen   of  Nithsdale,  where 
Burns  appears   as  umpire.     Mr.  Riddell  died  before  our  bard, 
and  some  elegiac  verses  to  his  memory  will  be  found  in  Volume 
IV.     From  him  and  from  all  the  members  of  his  family,  Burns 
received   not  kindness,  but   friendship  ;   a7id  the  society  he  met 
2oilh  in  general  at  Friar's  Carse  was  calculated  to  improve  his 
habits,  as   well  as  his  manners      Mr.   Ferjrusson   of  Crai'^dar- 
roch,  so  well  known  for  his  eloquence  and  social  habits,  died  soon 
after  our   poet.     Sir  Robert   Laurie,    the   third    person  in  the 
drama,  survives;  and  has  since   been   engaged  in  contests  of  a 
bloodier  nature — long   may  he   live   to  fight  the   battles  of  his 
country!     (1799)."     Three  better   men  lived  not  in  the  shire  ; 
but  they  were  gentlemen,  and  Burns  was  but  an  exciseman  ;  and 
Currie,  unconsciously   influenced   by  an   habitual   deference   to 
rank,   pompously    moralizes   on   the    poor  poet's   '-'propensities, 
which   temperance   might   have   weakened,  and    prudence   ulti- 
mately suppressed  ;"  while  in   the  same   breath,    and   with  the 
same  ink,  he  eulogises   the   rich   squire  for  "  his  eloquence  and 
social  habits,"  so  well  calculated  to  "  improve  the  habits,  as  well 
as  the  manners,"   of  the   bard    and  gauger !     Now  suppose  that 
"the  heroes"  had  been  not  Craigdarroch,  Glenriddel,  and  Max- 
welton,  but  Burns,  Mitchell,  and    Findlater,  a  gauger,  a  super- 
visor,  and  a  collector  of  excise,  and  that  the  contest  had  taken 
place  not  at   Friar's-Carse,    but  at  Ellisland,  not  for    a  time- 
honored    hereditary   ebony   whistle,   but   a  wooden  ladle  not  a 
week  old,  and  that  Burns  the  Victorious  had  acquired  an  imple- 
ment  more  elegantly  fashioned,  though  of  the  same  materials, 
tban  the  one  taken  from. his   mouth   the   moment  he  was  l)orn, 
what  blubbering   would  there    not  have  been  among  his  biogra- 
phers !     James  Currie,  how  exhortatory  !     Josiah  Walker,  how 
lachrymose  ! 

"  Next  uprose  our  Bard  like  a  prophet  in  drink  : 
'  Craigdarrocli,  thou'lt  soar  when  cnvatiun  isliull  sink  ! 


72  THE  GENIUS  AND 

But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyino, 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  sublime  ! 

"  Thy  line,  they  have  struggled  for  Freedom  with  Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  : 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  tlie  bay ; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of  day  !" 

How  very  shocking!  Then  only  hear  in  what  a  culpable  spirit 
Burns  writes  to  Riddel,  on  the  forenoon  of  the  day  of  battle  ! — 
''Sir,  Big  with  tlie  idea  of  this  important  day  at  Friar's-Carse,  I 
have  invoked  the  elements  and  skies  in  the  fond  persuasion  that 
they  would  announce  it  to  tlie  astonished  world  by  some  pheno- 
mena  of  terrific  import.  Yester-night,  until  a  very  late  liour, 
did  I  wait  with  anxious  horror  for  the  appearance  of  some  comet 
firing  half  the  sky  ;  or  aerial  armies  of  conquering  Scandina- 
vians, darting  atiiwart  the  startled  heavens,  rapid  as  the  ragged 
ligluning,  and  horrid  as  those  convulsions  of  nature  that  bury 
nations.  The  elements,  liowever,  seem  to  take  the  matter  very 
quietly  ;  they  did  not  even  usher  in  this  morning  with  triple  suns 
and  a  shower  of  blood,  symbolical  of  the  three  potent  heroes, 
and  the  mighty  claret-shed  of  the  day.  For  me,  as  Thomson  in 
his  Winter  says  of  the  storm,  I  shall  '  Hear  astonished,  and  as- 
tonished sin"-.'  To  leave  the  heights  of  Parnassus  and  come  to 
the  humble  vale  of  prose,  I  have  some  misgivings  that  I  take  too 
much  upon  me,  when  I  request  you  to  get  your  guest,  Sir  Robert 
Laurie,  to  post  the  two  inclosed  covers  for  me,  the  one  of  them  to 
Sir  William  Cumiinghame,  of  Robertland,  Bart.,  Kilmarnock — 
the  other  to  Mr.  Allen  Masterton,  writing-master,  Edinburgh. 
The  first  has  a  kindred  claim  on  Sir  Robert,  as  being  a  brother 
baronet,  and  likewise  a  keen  Foxite  ;  the  other  is  one  of  the 
worthiest  men  in  the  world,  and  a  man  of  real  genius;  so  allow 
nie  to  say,  he  lias  a  fraternal  claim  on  you.  I  want  them  franked 
for  to-morrow,  as  I  cannot  get  them  to  the  post  to-night.  I  shall 
send  a  servant  again  for  them  in  tlie  evening.  Wishinji;  that 
your  head  may  be  crowned  with  laurels  to-night,  and  free  from 
aches  to-morrow,  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir,  your  deeply-indebted 
and  obedient  servant,  R.  B."  ^V'hy,  you  sec  that  this  "  Letter," 
and  "  The   Whistle  " — perhaps   an   improper  poem  in  priggish 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  73 

eyes,  but.  in  the -eyes  of  Bacchus  the  best  of  triumphal  odes — 
make  up  the  whole  of  Burns's  share  in  this  transaction.  He 
was  not  at  the  Carse.  The  "three  potent  heroes"  were  too 
thoroughly  gentlemen  to  liave  asked  a  fourth  to  sit  by  with  an 
empty  bottle  before  him  as  umpire  of  that  debate.  Burns  that 
evening  was  sitting  with  his  eldest  child  on  his  knee,  teaching  it 
to  say  Dad — that  night  he  was  lying  in  his  own  bed,  with  bonnie 
Jean  by  his  side — and  "  yon  bright  god  of  day  "  saluted  him  at 
morning  on  the  Scaur  above  the  glittering  Nith. 

Turn  to  the  passages  in  his  youfhful  poetry,  where  he  speaks 
of  himself  or  others  "  wl'  just  a  drappie  in  their  ee."  Would 
you  that  he- had  never  written  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook? 

"  The  clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 
I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty ; 
I  staclier'd  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay    , 
To  free  the  ditches  ; 
"  An'  hillocks,  stanes,  an'  bushes,  kenn'd  ay 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches.  • 

"  The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre  : 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a'  my  pow'r, 

I  set  mysel ; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 
I  cou'd  na  tell. 

'  I  was  come  round  about  the  hill. 
And  toddlin  down  on  Willie's  mill. 
Setting  my  staff  wi'  a'  my  skill. 

To  keep  rae  sicker  : 
Thb'  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I  took  a  bicker. 

"  I  there  wi'  SoaiEXHiNG  did  forgather,"  &c. 

Then  and  there,  as  you  learn,  ensued  that  "  celestial  colloquy 
divine,"  which  being  reported  drove  the  doctor  out  of  the  coun- 
try, by  une.xtinguishable  laughter,  into  Glasgow,  where  half  a 
century  afterwards  he  died  universally  respected.  Something 
had  more  to  say,  and  long -Ueiore  that  time  Burns  liad  been 
sobered. 


74  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 
The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell 
Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal. 

Which  rais'd  us  baith  : 
I  took  the  way  that  pleas'd  myser. 

And  sue  did  Death." 

In  those  pregnant  Epistles  to  his  friends,  in  which  his  generous 
and  noble  character  is  revealed  so  sincerely,  he  now  and  then 
alludes  to  the  socialities  customary  in  Kyle  ;  and  the  good  peo- 
ple of  Scotland  have  always  enjoyed  such  genial  pictures. 
When  promising  himself  the  purest  pleasures  society  can  afford, 
in  company  with  "  Auld  Lapraik,"  whom  he  warmly  praises  for 
the  tenderness  and  truthfulness  of  his  "  sangs  " — 

"  There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best, 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife  : 
It  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  thro'  the  breast, 
A'  to  the  life  ; " 

and  wheft  luxuriating  in  the  joy  of  conscious  genius  holding 
communion  with  the  native  muse,  he  exclaims-^— 

"  Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire. 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire ; 
Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 
At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 

.  May  touch  the  heart ; " 

where  does  Burns  express  a  desire  fo  meet  his  brother-bard  ? 
Where  but  in  the  resorts  of  their  fellow. laborers,  when  released 
from  toil,  and  flinging  weariness  to  the  wind,  they  flock  into  the 
heart  of  some  holiday,  attired  in -sunshine,  and  feeling  that  life 
is  life  ? 

"  But  Mauchline  face,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there  ; 
We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care, 

If  we  forgather,' 
An'  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin-ware  * 

Wi'  ane  anither. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


"The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter, 
An'  kirsen  him  \vi'  reekin  water; 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  an'  tak  onr  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 
An'  faith  we'se  be  acquainted  better 

Before  we  part. 

"  Awa,  ye  selfish  warly  race, 
Wha  think  that  havins,  s  jnse,  an'  grace, 
Ev'n  love  an'_ friendship,  shduld  give  place 

To  catch  the  plack .' 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  your  crack 

"  But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms. 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  termsj 

'  Each  aid  the  others,' 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms. 

My  friends,  my  brothers  ! " 

Yet  after  all,  "the  four-gill  chap "  clattered  but  on  paper. 
Lapraik  was  an  elderly  man  of  sober  life,  impoverished  by  a 
false  friend  in  whom  he  had  confided  ;  and  Burns,  who  wore 
good  clothes,  and  paid  his  tailor  as  punctually  as  the  men  he 
dealt  with,  had  -not  much  money  out  of  seven  pounds  a  year,  to 
spend  in  "the  change-house."  He  allowed  no  man  to  pay 
his  "  lawin,"  but  neither  was  he  given  to  treating — save  the  sex  ; 
and  in  his  "  Epistle  to  James  Smith,"  he  gives  a  more  correct 
account  of  his  habits,  when  he  goes  thus  off  careeringly — 

"My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door. 
And  kneel :  '  Ye  Powers  I'  and  warm  implore, 
Tho'  I  should  wander  terra  o'er 

In  all  her  climes  : 
Grant  me  but  this — I  ask  no  more— ^ 

Ay.rowth  o'  rhymes. 

"  While  ye  are  plcas'd  to  keep  me  hale, 
I'll  sit  down  o!er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be't  water-brose,  or  Tiuslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerfu?  face. 
As  lang's  the  Muses  dinra  fail 

To  say  the  grace." 
7* 


76  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Read  the  "  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year  Morning  Salutation  to 
his  Auld  Mare  Maggie."  Not  a  soul  but  them-two-selves  is  in 
the  stable — in  the  farm-yard — nor  as  far  as  we  tliink  of,  in  the 
house.  Yes — there  is  one  in  the  house — but  she  is  somewhat  in- 
firm, and  not  yet  out«of  bed.  Sons  and  daughters  have  long 
since  been  married,  and  have  houses  of  their  own — such  of  them 
as  may  not  have  been  buried.  The  servants  are  employed  some- 
where else  out  of  doors — and  so  are  the  "  four  gallant  brutes  as 
e'er  did  draw  "  a  moiety  of  Maggie's  "  balrn-time."  The  Ad- 
dress  is  an  Autobiography.  The  master  remembers  himself, 
along  with  his  mare — in  days  \vhen  slia  was  "  dappl't,  sleek,  and 
glaizie,  a  bonnie  grey  ;"  and  he  "  the  pride  o'  a'  the  parishen." 

"That  day  W(^pranc'd  wi  muckle  pride. 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride  ; 
An'  sweet  an'  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air !  • 

Kyle  Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For-sic  a  pair." 

What  passages  in  their  common  life  docs  he  next  select  to 
"  roose  "  mare  and  maimer  ?  "  In  tug  or  tow  ?"  In  cart,  plough, 
or  harrow  ?  These  all-  rise  before  him  at  the  right  time,  and  in 
a  cheerful  spirit ;  towards  the  close  of  his  address  he  grows  se- 
rious, but  not  sad — as  well  he  may  ;  and  at  the  close,  as  well  he 
may,  tender  and  grateful.  But  the  image  he  sees  galloping, 
next  to  that  of  the  Broose,  comes  second,  because  it  is  "second 
best : 

"  When  thou  an'  I  were  young  an'  skeigh, 
An'  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh,  • 

How  thou  wad  prance,  an'  snore,  an'  skrcigh. 

An'  tak  the  road  ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh, 

*  An'  ca't  thee  mad.    - 

"  When  thou  wast  corri't,  an'  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  roacj  ay  like  a  swallow  ?" 

• 

We  do  not  blame  the  old  farmer  for  having    got  occasionally, 
mellow  some  thirty  years  ago — we  do  not  blame  Burns  for  mak- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  77 


iiig  him  pride  himself  on  his  shame  ;  nay,  we  bless  them  both  as 
we  hear  these  words  whispered  close  to  the  old  Ma're's  lug: 

"  Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hao  wrouglit. 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ! 
An'  monie  an  anxiojs  day  I  thought 

We  ts'ad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought,  • 

Wi'  something  yet. 

• 

"  And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan', 
.   •  That  now  perliaps  thou's  less  descrvin, 

An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin. 

For  my  last  fou, 
A  heapit  stimpart,  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

"  We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither : 
We'll  toytc  about  wi'  ane  anither  ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I'll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain*5  rig, 
Wharc  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue." 


A 


Or  will  you  turn  to  "  The  T.wa  Dogs,"  and  hear  Luath,  in 
hom  the  hest  humanities  mingle  with  the  canine — the  Poet's 
own  colley,  whom  some  cruel  wretch  murdered  ;  and  gibbeted 
to  everlasting  infamy  would  have  been  tii^  murderer,  had  Burns 
but  known  his  name  ? 

"  Th^  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives. 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride. 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fireside 

"  An'  whiles  twalpenny  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 
To  mend  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs : 
They'll  talk  o'  patronage  and  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts,  • 

Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  comin, 
An'  ferlie  at  the  folk  in.  Loi\'on. 


THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  As  bleak-fac'd  Hallowmass  returns, 
'They  get  the  jovial,  rantin  kirns. 

When  rural  life,  o'  every  station, 

Unite  in  common  recreation; 

Love  blinks,  Wit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth 

Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 
• 
"  That  merry  day  the  year  begins. 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds ; 

The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream ; 

An'  sheds  a  heart-in^iring  steam  ; 

The  luntin  pipe,  and  sneeshin  mill. 

Are  handed  round  wi'  richt  guid  will ; 

The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 

The  young  anes  rantin  thro'  the  house. 

My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 

That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them." 

Yet  how  happens  it  that  in  the  "  Halloween"  no  mention  is 
made  of  this  source  of  enjoyment,  and  that  the  parties  concerned 
pursue  the  ploy  with  unflagging  passion  through  all  its  charms 
and  spells  ?  Because  the  festival  is  kept  alive  by  the  poetic 
power  of  superstition  that  night  awakened  from  its  slumber  in  all 
those  simple  souls;  and  that  serves  instead  of  strong  drink. 
They  .fly  from  freak  to  freak,  without  a  thought  but  of  the  witch- 
eries— the  means  and  appliances  needful  to  make  them  potent ; 
this  Burns  knew  to  b»  nature,  and  therefore  he  delays  all  "  crea- 
.  ture  comforts"  till  the  end,  when  the  curtain  has  dropped  on  that 
visionary  stage,  and  the  actors  return  to  the  floor  of  their  every- 
day world.     Then — 

"  Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 
I  wat  they  didna  weary; 
An'  unco'  tales,  an'  funny  jokes. 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery. 
Till  buttir'd  so'ns,  wi  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt. 
They  parted  art'  careerin 
•  "  Fu'  bly the. that  night." 

VVe  see  no  reason   why,  in   the   spirit  of  these  observations, 
moralists  may  not  read   with  pleasure  and  approbation.    "  The 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


Author's  Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scotch  Representatives 
in  the  House  of  Commons."  Its  political  economy  is  as  sound 
as  its  patriotism  is  stirring ;  and  he  must  be  indeed  a  dunce  who 
believes  that  Burns  uttered  it  either  as  a  defence  or  an  encou- 
racement  of  a  national  vice,  or  that  it  is  calculated  to  stimulate 
poor  people  into  pernicious  habits.  It  is  an  address  that  Cob- 
bett,  had  he  been  a  Scotsman  and  one  of  the  Forty-Five,  would 
have  rejoiced  to  lay  on  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons  ;  for 
Cobbett,  in  all  that  was  best  of  him,  was  a  kind  of  Burns  in  his 
way,  and  loved  the  men  who  work.  He  maintained  the  cause 
of  malt,  and  it  was  a  leading  article  in  the  creed  of  his  faith 
that  the  element  distilled  therefrom  is  like  the  air  they  breathe, 
if  the  people  have  it  not,  they  die.  Beer  may  be  best;  and 
Burns  was  the  champion  of  beer,  as  \vell  as  of  what  bears  a 
brisker  name.  He  spoke  of  it  in  "  The  Earnest  Cry,"  and  like- 
wise in  the  "  Scotch  Drink,"  as  one  of  the  staffs  of  life  which 
had  been  struck  from  the  poor  man's  hand  by  fiscal  oppression. 
Tea  was  then  little  practised  in  Ayrshire  cottages  ;  and  we  do  not 
at  this  moment  remember  the  word  in  Burns's  Poems.  He  threat- 
ens a  risins  if  Ministers  will  not  obey  the  voice  of  the  People  : 

"  Auld  Scotland  has  a.raucle  tongue  ; 
She's  just  a  devil  \vi'  a  rung;  ' 
An'  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 
*Tho'  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 
Slie'll  no  desert." 

In  the  Postscript,  the  patriotism  and  poetry  of  "The  Earnest 
Cry"  wax  stronger  and  brighter — and  no  drunkard  would  dare 
to  read  aloud  in  the  presence  of  men — by  heart  he  never  could 
aet  it — such  a  strain  as  this — ■familiar  to  many  million  ears : 

"  Let  half-starv'd  slaves,  in  warmer  skies, 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust'ring,  rise  ; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies. 

But  blythe  and  frisky, 
She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys, 

Tak  air  their  whisky." 


80  "  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  What  tho'  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms. 
While  fragrance  blooms,  and  beauty  charms  ; 
When  wretches  range,  in  famfsh'd  swarms. 

The  scented  groves. 
Or  hounded  forth,  dislionor  arms. 

In  hungry  droves. 

"  Their  gun's  a  burden  on  their  shouther ; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o'  powther ; 
Their  bauldes^  thought's  a  hank'ring  swither 

To  stan'  or  rin, 
Till  skelp — a  shot — they're  aff,  a'  throwther. 

To  save  their  skin. 

"  But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill. 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill. 
Say,  such  is  Royal  George's  will,  ^ 

An'  there's  the  foe. 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 

"  Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doublings  tease  him ; 
Death  comes,  wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  him ; 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gies  him  : 
An"  when  he  fa's, 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin  lea'es  him 
In  faint  huzzas." 

These  are  not  the  sentiments  of  a  man  who  "  takes  an  enemy 
into  his  mouth  to  steal  away  his  brains."  Nor  is  there  anytliiiig 
to  condemn,  when  looked  at  in  the  liaht  with  which  jjenius  in- 
vests  them,  in  the  pictures  presented  to  us  in  "  Scotch  Drink," 
of  some  of  the  familiar  scenes  of  humble  life,  whether  of  busy 
work,  or  as  busy  recreation,  and  some  of  home-felt  incidents  in- 
terestinij  to  all  that  live — such  as  "  when  skirlin  weanies  see  the 
light" — animated  and  invigorated  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  tension, 
beyond  tiie  reach  of  the  jaded  spirits  of  the  laboring  poor — so 
at  least  the  poet  makes  us  for  the  time  willing  to  believe — when 
unaided  by  that  elixir  he  so  fervidly  sings.  ■  Who  would  wish 
tlie  following  lines  ex[)unged  ?  Wlio  may  not,  if  he  ciiooses,  so 
qualify  their  meaning  as  to  make  them  true?  Who  will  not 
pardon  the  first  two,  if  they  need  pardon,  for  sake  of  the  last 
two  that  need  none  ?     For  surely  you,  who  though  guilty  of  no 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  SI 


excess,  fare  sumptuously  every  day,  will  not,  find  it  in  your 
hearts  to  grudge  the  "  poor  man's  wine  "  to  the  Cottar  after  tliat 
"  Saturday  Night  "  of  his,  painted  for  you  to  the  life  by  his  own 
son.  Robert  Burns  ! 

"  Thou  clears  tlie  head  o'  doited  lear ; 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  care  ; 
Tho\i  strings  the  nerves  o'  labor  sair, 

At's  weary  toil ; 
Thou  brightens  even  dark  despair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

"  Aft,  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 
Wi'  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  ; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need, 

.  The  poor  man's  wine  ; 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread. 

Thou  kitchens  fine." 

Gilbert,  in  h  5  excellent  vindication  of  his  brother's  character, 
tells  us  that  at  the  time  when  many  of  those  "  Rhapsodies  respect- 
ing drinking"  were  composed  and  first  published,  few  people 
were  less  addicted  to  drinking  than  he ;  and  that  he  assumed  a 
poetical  character,  very  different  from  that  of  the  man  at  the 
lime.  It  has  been  said  that  Scotsmen  have  no  humor — no  per- 
ception of  humor — that  we  are  all  plain  matter-of-fact  people — 
not  without  some  strength  of  understanding — but  grave  to  a 
degree  on  occasions  when  races  more  favor'd  by  nature  are 
gladsome  to  an  excess  :  and — 

"  In  gay  delirium  rob  them  of  themselves." 

This  judgment  on  our  national  characteristics  implies  a  familiar 
acquaintance  with  Scottish  poetry  from  Dunbar  to  Burns.  It 
would  be  nearer  the  truth — though  still  wide  of  it — to  affirm, 
that  we  have  more  humor  than  all  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of 
this  earth  besides;  but  this  at  least  is  true,  tliat  unfortunately 
for  ourselves,  we  have  too  much  humor,  and  that  it  lias  sometimes 
been  allowed  to  flow  out  of  its  proper  province,  and  mingle  itself 
M'ith  thoughts  and  things  that  ought  for  ever  to  be  kept  sacred  in 
the  minds  of  the  people.     A  few  words  by  and  by  on  this  sub- 


82  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ject  ;  meanwhile,  with  respect  to  his  "  Rhapsodies  about  Drink- 
ing,"  Burns  knew  tliat  not  only  had  all  the  stated,  stages,  and 
phases  of  inebriety  been  humorously  illustrated  by  the  comic 
genius  of  his  country's  most  popular  poets,  but  that  the  people 
themselves,  in  spite  of  their  deep  moral  and  religious  conviction 
of  the  sinfulness  of  intemperance,  were  prone  to  look  on  its 
indulgenges  in  every  droll  and  ludicrous  aspect  they  could  as- 
sume,  according  to  the  infinite  variety  of  the  modifications  of 
individual  character.  As  a  poet  dealing  with  life  as  it  lay  be- 
fore and  around  him,  so  far  from  seeking  to  avoid,  he  eagerly 
seized  on  these  ;  and  havin:j  in  the  constitution  of  his  own  being 
as  much  humor  and  as  rich  as  ever  mixed  with  the  higher  ele- 
ments of  genius,  he  sometimes  gave  vent  to  its  perceptions  and 
emotions  in  strains  perfectly  irresistible — even  to  the  most  seri- 
ous — who  had  to  force  themselves  back  into  their  habitual  and 
better  state,  before  they  could  regard  them  with  due  condemna- 
tion. 

But  humor  in  men  of  genius  is  always  allied  to  pathos — its 
exquisite  touches. 

• 

"  On  the  pale  cheek  of  sorrow  awaken  a  smile, 
And  illumine  the  eye  that  was  dim  with  a  tear.  " 

So  is  it  a  thousand  times  with  the  humor  of  Burns — and  we  have 
seen  it  so  in  our  quotations  from  these  very  "  Rhapsodies."  He 
could  sit  with  "  rattlinif  roarin'  Willie" — and  when  he  belonged 
to  the  Croehallan  Fencibles,  "  he  was  the  king  of  a'  the  core." 
But  whi're  he  usually  sat  up  late  at  night,  during  those  glorious 
hard-working  years,  was  a  low  loft  above  a  stable — so  low  that 
he  had  to  stoop  even  when  he  was  silting  at  a  deal  table  three 
feet  by  two — with  his  "  heart  inditing  a  good  matter"  to  a 
plough-boy,  who  read  it  up  to  the  poet  before  they  lay  down  on 
the  same  truckle-bed. 

Burns  had  as  deep  an  insight  as  ever  man  had  into  the  moral 
evils  of  the  poor  man's  character,  condition,  and  life.  From 
n^any  of  them  he  remained  free  to  the  last  ;  some  he  suffered 
late  and  early.  What  were  his  struggles  wo  know,  yet  we  know 
l)ut  in  part,  before  he  was  overcome.  But  it  does  not  appear 
that  he  thought  intemperance  the  worst  moral  evil  of  the  people, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS,  83 


or  that   to  the  habits   it   forms   had    chiefly  to  be  imputed  their 
'  falling  short  or  away  from  that  character  enjoined   by  the  law 
written  and  unwritten,  and  without  which,  preserved  in  its  great 
lineaments,  there  cannot  be  to  the  poor  man,  any  more  than  tlie 
rich,  either  power  or  peace.     He  believed  that  but  for  "  Man's 
inhumanity  to  man,"  this   might   be  a  much   better  earth  ;  that 
they  who  live  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows  would  wipe  them  with 
pride,  so  that  the  blood  did  but  freely  circulate  from  their  hearts ; 
that  creatures  endowed  w  ith  a  moral  sense  and  discourse  of  rea- 
son would  follow  their  dictates,  in  preference  to  all  solicitations 
to  enjoyment  from  those  sources  that   flow  to  them  in  common 
with  all  things  that  have  life,  so  that  they  were  but  allowed  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  nature,  and  not  made  to  bow  down  to  a 
servitude  inexorable  as  necessity,  but  imposed,  as  he  thought,  on 
their  necks  as  a  yoke  by  the  very  hands  which  Providence  had 
kept   free  ; — -believing  all   this,  and  nevertheless   knowing  and 
feeling,  often  in  bitterness  of  heart  and  prostration  of  spirit,  that 
there  is  far  worse  evil,  because  self-originating- and  self-inhabit- 
ing within  the  invisible  world  of  every  human   soul.  Burns  had 
no  reprobation  to  inflict  on  the   lighter  sins  of  the  oppressed,  in 
sight  of  the   heavier  ones  of  the  oppressor  ;  and  when  he  did 
look  into  his  own   heart  and  the  hearts  of  his  brethren  in  toil 
and  in  trouble,  for  those  springs  of  misery  which  are  for  ever  well- 
ing there,  and   need    no  external    blasts  or  torrents  to  lift  them 
from  their  beds  till  they  overflow  their   banks,    and  inundate 
ruinously  life's  securest  pastures,  he  saw  the  Passions  to  which 
are  given  power  and  dominion  for  bliss  or  for  bale — of  them  in 
his  sweetest,  loftiest  inspirations,  he  sung  as  a  poet  all  he  felt  as 
a  man  ;   willing  to  let  his  fancy  in  lighter  moods  dally  with  infe- 
rior things  and   merry  measures — even  with  the  very  meat  and 
drink  that  sustains  man  who  is  but  grass,  and  like  the  flower  of 
the  field  flourisheth  and  is  cut  down,  and  raked  away  outof  the 
sunshine  into  the  shadow  of  the  grave. 

That  Burns  did  not  only  not  set  himself  to  dissuade  poor  people 
from  drinking,  but  that  he  indited  "  Rhapsodies"  about  "Scotch 
Drink,"  and  "  Earnest  Cries,"  will  not,  then,  seem  at  all  sur- 
prising to  poor  people  themselves,  nor  very  culpable  even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  most  sober  among  them  ;   whatever  may  be  the  light 

8 


84  THE   GENIUS  AND 


in  which  some  people  regard  such  delinquencies,  your  more-in- 
sorrow. than-anger  moralists,  who  are  their  own  butlers,  and 
sleep  with  the  key  of  the  wine-cellar  under  their  pillow ;  his 
poetry  is  very-  dear  to  the  people,  and  we  "venture  to  say  that 
they  understand  its  spirit  as  well  as  the  best  of  those  for  whom 
it  was  not  written  ;  for  written  it  was  for  his  own  Order — the 
enlightened  majority  of  Christian  men.  -No  fear  of  their  being 
blind  to  its  venial  faults,  its  more  serious  imperfections,  and  if 
there  they  be,  its  sins.  There  are  austere  eyes  in  work-shops, 
and  in  the  fields,  intolerant  of  pollution  ;  stern  judges  of  them- 
selves and  others  preside  in  those  courts  of  conscience  that  are 
not  open  to  the  public  ;  nevertheless,  they  have  tender  hearts, 
and  they  yearn  with  exceeding  love  towards  those  of  their  breth- 
ren who  have  brightened  or  elevated  their  common  lot.  Latent 
virtues  in  such  poetry  as  Burns's  afe  continually  revealing  them- 
selves to  readers,  whose  condition  is  felt  to  be  uncertain, 
and  their  happiness  to  fluctuate  With  it;  adversity  puts  to  the 
test  our  opinions  and  beliefs,  equally  with  our  habits  and  our 
practices  ;  and  the  most  moral  and  religious  man  that  ever 
worked  from  morning  to  night,  that  his  family  might  have  bread 
— daily  from  youth  upwards  till  now  he  is  threescore  and  ten — 
might  approve  of  the  sentiment  of  that  Song,  feel  it  in  all  its 
fervor,  and  express  it  in  all  its  glee,  in  which  age  meeting  with 
age,  and  again  hand  and  heart  linked  together,  the  "  trusty 
feres,"  bring  back  the  past  in  a  sun-burst  on  the  present,  and 
thoughtless  of  the  future,  pour  out  unblamed  libations  to  the 
days  "  o'  auld  lang  syne  !" 

It  seems  to  us  very  doubtful  if  any  poetry  could  become 
popular,  of  which  the  prevalent  spirit  is  not  in  accordance  with 
that  of  the  people,  as  well  in  those  qualities  we  grieve  to  call 
vices,  as  in  those  we  are  happy  to  pronounce  virtues.  It  is  not 
sufficient  that  they  be  moved  for  a  time  against  their  will,  by 
some  moral  poet  desirous,  we  shall  suppose,  of  purifying  and 
elevating  their  character,  by  the  circulation  of  better"  sentiments 
than  those  with  which  they  have  been  long  familiar  ;  it  is  neces- 
sary that  the  will  shall  go  along  with  their  sympathies  to  preserve 
them  perhaps  from  being  turned  into  antipathies  ;  and  that  is  not 
likely  to  happen,  if  violence  be  done  to  long- established  customs 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  85 

and   habits,  wliich  may  have  acquired   not  only  the   force,  but 
sonictliing  too  of  the  sanctity,  of  nature. 

But  it  is  certain  that  to  effect  any  happy  change  in  the  man- 
ners or  the  morals  of  a  people — to  be  in  any  degree-instrumental 
to  the  attainment  or  preservation  of  their  dearest  interests — a 
Poet  must  deal  with  them  in  the  spirit  of  truth  ;  and  that  ho 
may  do  so,  he  must  not  only  be  conversant  with  their  condition, 
but  wise  in  knowledge,  tiiat  he  may  understand  what  he  sees, 
and  whence  it  springs — the  evil  and  the  good.  Without  it,  he 
can  never  help  to  remove  a  curse  or  establish  a  blessing  ;  for  a- 
while  his  denunciations  or  his  praises  may  seem  to  be  working 
wonders — his  genius  may  be  extolled  to  the  skies — and  himself 
ranked  among  the  benefactors  of  his  people  ;  but  yet  a  little 
while,  and  it  is  seen  that  the  mii'acle  has  not  been  wrought,  the 
evil  spirit  has  not  been  exorcised  ;  the  plague-spot  is  still  on  the 
bosom  of  his  unhealed  country  ;  and  the  physician  sinks  away 
unobserved  'among  men  who  have  not  taken  a  degree. 

Look,  for  example,  at  the  fate  of  that  once  fashionable,  for 
we  can'hardly  call  it  popular,  tale — "  Scotland's  Skaith,  or  the 
History  of  Will  and  Jean,"  with  its  Supplement,  "  The  Waes 
o'  War."  Hector  Macneil  had  taste  and  feeling — even  genius 
— and  will  be  remembered  among  Scottish  poets. 

"  Robin  Burns,  jn  mony  a  ditty, 

Loudly  sings  in  wliisky's. praise  ; 
Sweet  his  sang  !  tho.mair's  the  pity 
E'er  on  it  he  war'd  sic  liys. 

"  0'  a'  the  ills  poor  Caledonia 

E'er  yet  pree'd,  or  e'er  will  taste, 
Brew'd  in  hell's  black  Pandemonia — 
Whisky's  ill  will  skaith  her  niaist." 

So  said  Hector  Macneil  of  Robert  Burns,  in  verse  not  quite 
so  vigorous  as  the  "  Earnest  Cry."  It  would  require  a  deeper 
voice  to  frighten  the  "drouthy"  from  "Scotch  Drink,''  if  it  i)e 
"  brew^ed  in  hell."  "Impressed  with  the  baneful  conse- 
quences inseparable  from  an  inordinate  use  of  ardent  si)rrits 
among  the  lower  orders  of  society,  and  anxious  to  contribute 
something  that  might  at  least  tend  to  retard  the  contagion  of  so 


86  THE  GENIUS  AND 


dangerous  an  evil,  it  was  conceived,  in  the  ardor  of  philanthro- 
py, that  a  natural,  pathetic  story,  in  verse,  calculated  to  enforce 
moral  truths,  in  the  language  of  simplicity  and  passion,  might 
probably  interest  the  uncorrupted  ;  and  tiiat  a  striking  picture 
of  the  calamities  incident  to  idle  debauchery,  contrasted  with  the 
blessings  of  industrious  prosperity,  might  (although  insuffi(;ient 
to  reclaim  abandoned  vice)  do  something  to  strengthen  and  en- 
courage endangered  virtue.  Visionary  as  these  fond  expecta- 
tions may  have  been,  it  is  pleasing  to  cherish  the  idea;  ai\d'  if 
we  may  be  allowed  to  draw  favorable  inferences  from  the  sale 
of  ten  thousand  copies  in  the  short  space  of  jive  months,  why 
should  we  despair  of  success  ?"  The  success,  if  we  may  trust 
to  statistical  tables,  has,  alas !  been  small  ;  nor  would  it  have 
been  greater  had  a  million  copies  been  put  into  circulation.  For 
the  argument  illustrated  in  the  "  History  of  Will  and  Jean  " 
has  no  foundation  in  nature — and  proceeds  on  an  assumption 
grossly  calumnious  of  the  Scottish  character.  The  following 
verses  used  once  to  ring  in  every  ear : — 

"  Wha  was  ance  like  Willie  Garlace, 
Wlia  in  neiboring  town  or  farm  ? 
Beauty's  bloom  shone  in  his  lair  face, 
Deadly  strength  was  in  his  arm  ? 

"  Wha  wi'  Will  could  rin,  or  wrestle, 
Throw  the  sledge,  or  toss  the  bar  ? 
Hap  what  would,  he  stood  a  castle. 
Or  for  safety  or  for  war  : 

"  Warm  his  heart,  and  mild  as  manfu', 
Wi'  tlie  bauld  he  bauld  wad  be  ; 
But  to  friends  he  had  a  handfu', 
Purse  and  service  aft  were  free." 

He  marries  Jeanie  Millar,  a  wife  worthy  of  him,  and  for  three 
years  they  are  good  and  happy  in  tiie  blessing  of  God.  What 
in  a  few  months  makes  drunkards  of  them  both  ?  He  happens 
to  go  once  for  refreshment,  after  a  long  walk,  into  a  way-side 
|)ublic  house — and  from  that  night  he  is  a  lost  man.  He  is  de- 
scribed as  entering  it  on  his  way  home  from  a  Fair — and  we 
never- heard  of  a   Fair  where  there   was  no   whisky — drinks 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  87 

— — s — ■ — ■ — 

Meg's  ale  or  porter,  and  eals  her  bread  and  cheese  without  in- 
curring much  blame  from  his  biographer;  but  his  companion 
prevails  on  him  to  taste  "  the  widow's  gill  " — a  thing  this  bold 
peasant  seems  never  before  to  have  heard  of — and  infatuated 
with  the  novel  potion,  Willie  Garlace,  after  a  few  feeble  strug- 
gles, in  which  he  derives  no  support  froiVi  his  previous  life  ot 
happiness,  industry,  sobriety,  virtue,  and  religion,  staggers  to 
destruction.  Jeanie,  in  despair,  takes  to  drinking  too;  they  are 
"  rouped  out ;"  she  becomes  a  beggar,  and  he  "  a  sodger."  The 
verses  run  smoothly  and  rapidly,  and  there  is  both  skill  and 
power  of  narration,  nor  are  touches  of  nature  wanting,  strokes 
of  pathos  that  have  drawn  tears.  But  by  what  insidious  witch- 
craft this  frightful  and  fatal  transformation  was  brought  about, 
the  uninspired  story-teller  gives  no  intimation — a  few  vulgar 
common-places  constitute  the  whole  of  his  philosophy — and  he 
no  more  thinks  of  tracing  the  effects  of  whisky  on  the  moral 
being — the  heart — of  poor  Willie  Garlace,  than  he  would  have 
thought  of  giving  an  account  of  the  coats  of  his  stomach,  had 
he  been  poisoned  to  death  by  arsenic.  "His  hero"  is  not 
gradually  changed  into  a  beast,  like  the  victims  of  Circe's  en- 
ohantments ;  but  rather  resembles  the  Cyclops  all  at  once  mad- 
dened in  his  cave  by  the  craft  of  Ulysses.  This  is  an  outrage 
against  nature  ;  not  thus  is  the  sting  to  be  taken  out  of  "  Scot- 
land's Scaith  " — and  a  nation  of  drunkards  to  be  changed  into 
a  nation  of  gentlemen.  If  no  man  be  for  a  moment  safe  who 
"  prees  the  widow's  gill  "  the  case  is  hopeless,  and  despair  ad- 
mits the  inutility  of  Excise.  In  the  "■  Waes  o'  War  " — the 
Sequel  of  the  story — Willie  returns  to  Scotland  with  a  pension 
and  a  wooden  lejj,  and  finds  Jeanie  with  the  children  in  a  cot- 
tage  given  her  by  "  the  good  Buccleugh."  Both  have  become 
as  sober  as  church-mice.  The  loss  of  a  limb,  and  eight  pounds 
a  year  for  life,  had  effectually  reformed  the  husband,  a  cottage 
and  one  pound  a  quarter  the  wife  ;  and  this  was  good  Hector 
iMacneil's  idea  of  p  Moral  Poem!  A  poem  that  was  not  abso- 
lutely to  stay  the  ])lague,  but  to  fortify  the  constitution  against  it ; 
"  and  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  draw  favorable  inferences  from 
the  sale  often  thousand  copies  in  the  short  space  of  "five  months, 
why  should  we  despair  of  success  ?" 

83:- 


88  THE  GENIUS  AND 

It  is  not  from  such  poetry  that  any  hraltliful  influence  can  be 
exhaled  over  the  vitiated  habits  of  a  people ; 

"With  other  ministrations,  thou,  0  Nature  ! 
Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child ; " 

had  Burns  written  a  Tale  to  exemplif)'  a  Curse,  Nature  would 
have  told  him  of  them  all ;  nor  would  he  have  been  in  aught 
unfitted  by  the  experiences  that  prompted  many  a  genial  and 
festive  strain,  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  better  qualified  to  give  in 
"  thoufjhts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn,"  some  solution  of 
that  appalling  mystery,  in  which  the  souls  of  good  men  are  often 
seen  hurrying  and  hurried  along  paths  they  had  long  abhorred, 
and  stiU  abhor,  as  may  be  seen  from  their  eyes,  even  when  thfy 
are  rejecting  all  offered  means  of  salvation,  human  and  divine, 
and  have  sold  their  bibles  to  buy  death.  Nor  would  Burns  have 
adopted  the  vulgar  libel  on  the  British  army,  that  it  was  a  re- 
ceptacle for  drunken  husbands  who  had  deserted  their  wives  and 
children.  There  have  been  many  such  recruits  ;  but  his  martial, 
loyal,  and  patriotic  spirit  would  ill  have  brooked  the  thought  of 
such  a  disgrace  to  the  service,  in  an  ideal  picture,  which  his 
genius  was  at  liberty  to  color  at  its  own  will,  and  could  have 
colored  brightly  according  to  truth.  "  One  fine  summer  evening 
he  was  at  the  Inn  at  Brownhill  with  a  couple  of  friends,  when 
a  poor  way-worn  soldier  passed  tiie  window :  of  a  sudden,  it 
struck  the  poet  to  call  him  in,  and  get  the  story  of  his  adven- 
tures ;  after  listening  to  which,  he  all  at  once  fell  into  one  of 
those  fits  of  abstraction,  not  unusual  with  him,"  and  perhaps, 
with  the  air  of  "The  mill,  mill  O"  in  his  heart,  he  composed 
"  Tlie  Soldier's  Return."  It,  too,  speaks  of  the  "  waes  of  war  ;  " 
and  tiiat  poor  way-worn  soldier,  we  can  well  believe,  had  given 
no  very  flattering  account  of  himself  or  his  life,  cither  before  or 
after  he  had  mounted  the  cockade.  Why  had  he  left  Scotland 
and  Mill-niannoch  on  the  sweet  banks  of  the  Coyle  nearCoylion 
Kirk  ?  Burns  cared  not  why  ;  he  loved  his  kind,  and  above  all, 
his  own  people  ;  and  his  imagination  immediately  pictured  a 
blissful  meeting  of  long-parted  lovers. 

"  I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 
Where  lang  I'd  been  a  Ixxlger, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  S9 


My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 
A  poor  but  honest  sodger. 

"  A  right  leal  heart  was  in  my  breast, 

A  hand  unstained  \vi'  plunder, 
And  for  fair  Scotia  harrte  again^ 

I  cheery  on  did  wander. 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile'. 

That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

"  At  length  I  reached  the  bonnie  glen. 

Where  early  life  I  sported  ; 
I  passed  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn. 

Where  Nancy  oft  I  courted : 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  my  mother's  dwelling  ! 
And  turned  me  round  to  hide  the  tear 

That  in  my  breast  was  swelling." 

The  ballad  is  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  throughout  Iiow  true 
to  nature  !  It'is  alive  all  over  Scotland  ;  that  other  is  dead,  or 
with  suspended  animation  ;  not  because  "  The  Soldier's  Return" 
is  a  happj'^  and  "  Will  and  Jean"  a  miserable  story;  for  the 
people's  heart  is  prone  to  pity,  though  their  eyes  are  not  much 
given  to  tears.  But  the  people  %vere  told  .that  "  Will-  and  Jean  " 
had  been  written  for  their  sakes,  by  a  wise  man  made  melan- 
choly by  the  sight  of  their  condition.  The  upper  ranks  were 
sorrowful  e.xceedinfflv  for  the  lower — all  weepin<r  over  their 
wine  for  them  over  their  wliisky,  and  would  not  be  comforted  ! 
For  Hector  Macneil  informs  them  that 

."  Maggie's  club,  wha  could  get  nae  light  , 

On  some  things  that  should  be  clear, 
Fand  ere  long  the  lau't,  and  ae  night 
Cluhb'd  and  gat  the  Gazetteer." 

The  lower  ranks  read  the  Lamentation,  for  ever  so  many 
thousands  were  thrust  into  their  hands;  but  though  not  insensi- 
ble of  iheir  own  infirmities,  and  willing  to  confess  tliem.  tiiey  rose 
up  in  indignation  against  a  charge  that  swept  their  firesides  of 
all  that,  was   mosf  sacredly  cherished   tiiere,  asked   '\\\\o   wrote 


90  THE  GENIUS  AND 


*'  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  ?  "  and  declared  with  one  voice, 
and  a  loud  one,  that  if  they  were  to  be  bettered  by  poems,  it 
should  be  by  the  poems  of  their  own  Robert  Burns. 

And  here  we  are  brought  to  speak  of  those  Satirical  composi- 
tions which  made  Burns  famous  within  the  bounds  of  more  than 
one  Presbytery,  before  the  world  had  heard  his  name.  In  boy- 
hood and  early  youth  he  showed  no  symptoms  of  humor — he  was 
no  droll — dull  even*— from  constitutional  headaches,  and  heart- 
quakes,  and  mysteries  not  to  be  understood — no  laughing  face 
had  he-:-the  lovers  of  mirth  saw  none  of  its  sparkles  in  his  dark, 
melancholy  looking  eyes.  In  his  autobiographical  sketch  he 
tells  us  of  no  funny  or  facetious  "  chap-books  ;  "  his  earliest 
reading  was  of  the  "  tender  and  the  true,"  the  serious  or  the 
sublime.  But  from  the  first  he  had  been  just  as  susceptible  and 
as  observant  of  the  comic  as  of  the  tragic — nature  had  given 
him  a  genius  as  powerful  over  smiles  as  tears — but  as  the  sacred 
source  lies  deepest,  its  first  inspirations  were  drawn  thence  in 
abstraction  and  silence,  and  not  till  it  felt  some  assurance  of  its 
diviner  strength  did  it  delight  to  disport  itself  among  the  ludi- 
crous images  that,  in  innumerable  varieties  of  form  and  color — 
— all  representative  of  realities — may  be  seen,  when  we  choose 
to  look  at  them,  mingling  with  the  most  solemn  or  pathetic  shows 
that  pass  along  in  our  dream  of  life.  You  remember  his  words, 
"  Thus  with  me  began"  Love  and  Poetry."  True  ;  they  grew 
together  ;  but  for  a  long  time  they  were  almost  silent — seldom 
broke  out  into  song.  His  earliest  love  verses  but  poorly  express  his 
love — nature  was  then  too  strong  within  him  for  art  which  then 
was  weak — and  young  passion,  then  pure  but  all-engrossing, 
was  filling  his  whole  soul  with  poetry  that  ere  long  was  to  find  a 
tonfrue  that  would  charm  the  world. 

It  was  in  the  Humorous,  the  Comic,  the  Satirical,  that  he  first 
tried  and  proved  his  strength.  Exulting  to  find  that  a  rush  of 
words  was  ready  at  his  will — that  no  sooner  (lashed  his  fancies 
than  on  the  instant  they  were  embodied,  he  wanton'd  and  revelled 
among  the  subjects  that  had  always  seemed  to  him  the  most  risi- 
ble, whatever  might  be  the  kind  of  laughter,  simple  or  com- 
pound— pure  mirth,  or  a  mixture  of  mirth  and  contempt,  even  of  ■ 
indignation  and  scorn — mirth  still  being  the  chief  ingredient  that 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  91 


qualified  the  wliole — and  these,  as  you  know,  were  all  included 
within  the  "  Sanctimonious,"  from  which  Burns  believed  the  Sa- 
cred to  be  excluded;  but  there  lay  the  danger,  and  there  the 
blame  if  he  transgressed  the  holy  bounds. 

His  satires  were  unsparingly  directed  against  certain  ministers 
of  the  gospel,  whose  Calvinism  he  thought  was  not  Christianity  ; 
whose  characters  were  to  him  odious,  their  persons  ridiculous, 
their  manners  in  the  pulpit  irreverent,  and  out  of  it  absurd  ;  and 
having  frequent  opportunities  of  seeing  and  hearing  them  in  all 
their  glory,  he  made  studies  of  them  con  amore  on  the  spot,  and 
at  home  from  abundant  materials  with  a  master's  hand  elabo- 
rated finished  pictures-»-for  some  of  them  are  no  less — which, 
when  hung  out  for  public  inspection  in  market-places,  brought 
the  originals  before  crowds  of  gazers  transported  into  applause. 
Was  this  wicked  ?  Wicked  we  think  too  strong  a  word  ;  but  we 
cannot  say  that  it  was  not  reprehensible,  for  to  all  sweeping  sa- 
tire there  must  be  some  exception — and  exaggeration  cannot  be 
truth.  Burng  by  his  irregularities  had  incurred  ecclesiastical 
censure,  and  it  has  not  unfairly  been  said  that- personal  spite 
barbed  the  sting  of  his  satire.  Yet  we  fear  such  censure  had 
been  but  too  lightly  regarded  by  him  ;  and  we  are  disposed  to 
think  that  his  ridicule,  however  blameable  on  other  grounds,  was 
free  from  malignity,  and  tha^t  his  genius  for  the  comic  rioted  in 
the  pleasure  of  sympathy  and  the  pride  of  power.  To  those 
who  regard  the  persons  he  thus  satirized  as  truly  belonging  to 
the  old  Covenanters,  and  Saints  of  a  more  ancient  time,  such  sa- 
tires must  seem  shameful  and  sinful ;  to  us  who  regard  "  Rum- 
ble John  "  and  his  brethren  in  no  such  light,  they  appear  venial 
otfences,  and  not  so'  horrible  as  Hudibrastic.  A  good  many  years 
after  Burns's  death,  in  our  boyhood  we  sometimes  saw  and  heard 
more  than  one  of  those  worthies,  and  cannot  think  his  descrip- 
tions  greatly  overcharged.  We  remember  walking  one  day — 
unknown  to  us  as  a  fast  day — in  the  neighborhood  of  an  ancient 
fortress,  and  hearing  a  noise  to  be  likened  to  nothing  imaginable 
en  this  eartii  but  the  bellowing  of  a  buffalo  fallen  into  a  trap 
upon  a  tiger,  which  as  we  came  within  half  a  mile  of  the  castle 
we  discerned  to  be  the  voice  of  a  pastor  engaged  in  public  prayer. 
His  physiognomy  was  little  less  alarming  than  his  voice,  and  his 


92  THE  GENIUS  AND 

sermon  corresponded  with  his  looks  and  his  lungs — the  whole  be- 
ing indeed  an  extraordinary  exhibition  of  divine  worsliip.  We 
never  can  think  it  sinful  that  Burns  should  have  been  humorous 
on  such  a  pulpiteer;  and  if  we  shudder  at  some  of  the  verses 
in  which  he  seems  yet  alive,  it  is  not  at  the  satirist. 

"  From  this  time,  I  began  to  be  known  in  the  country  as  a 
maker  of  rhymes.  Holy  Willie's  Prayer  next  made  its  appear- 
ance, and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that  tliey  held  sev.- 
eral  meetings  to  look  oyer  their  spiritual  artillery,  and  see  if  any 
of  it  might  be  pointed  against  profane  rhymers;"  "and  to  a 
place  among  profane  rhymers,^'  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  in  his  mas- 
terly volume,  "the  author  of  this  terrible  injliclion  had  unques- 
tionably establi'shed  his  right."  Sir  Walter  speaks  of  it  as  "a 
piece  of  satire  more  exquisitely  severe  than  any  which  Burns  ever 
afterwards  wrote,  hut  unfortunately  cast  in  a  form  too  daringly 
■profane  to  be  received  into  Dr.  Currie's  collection."  We  have 
no  wish  to  say  one  word  in  opposition  to  the  sentence  pronounced 
by  such  judges  ;  but  has  Burns  here  dared  beyond  Milton, 
Goethe,  and  Byron  ?  He  puts  a  Prayer  to  the  Almighty  into  the 
mouth  of  one  whom  he  believes  to  be  one  of  the  lowest  of  blas- 
phemers. ■  In  that  Prayer  are  impious  supplications  couched  in 
shocking  terms,  characteristic  of  the  hypocrite  wlio  stands  on  a 
familiar  fpoting  with  his  Maker.  Miltcn's  blasphemer  is  a  fallen 
an^el,  Goethe's  a  devil,  Bvron's  the  first  murdere-r,  and  Burns's 
an  elder  of  the  kirk.  All  the  four  poets  are  alike  guilty,  or  not 
guilty — unless  there  be  in  the  case  of  one  of  tliem  something 
peculiar  that  lifts  iiim  up  above  the  rest,  in  the  case  of  another 
something  peculiar  that  leaves  him  alone  a  sinner.  Let  Milton 
then  stand  aloof,  acquitted  of  the  charge,  not  because  of  the 
grandeur  and  magnificence  of  his  conception  of  Satan,  but  be- 
cause its  iiigh  significance  cannot  be  misunderstood  by  the  pious, 
and  that  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  dwellers  in  darkness,  as  well 
as'of  the  Sons  of  the  Morning  "  he  vindicates  the  ways  of  God 
toman."  Byron's  Cain  blasphemes  ;  does  Byron?  Many  have 
thought  so — for  they  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  in  the  character  of 
the  Cursed,  as  it  glooms  in  soliloquies  that  are  poetically  sublime, 
fiome  dark  intention  in  its  delincjator  to  inspire  doubts  of  the  jus- 
tice  of  the  Almighty  One  who  inliabiteth  eternity.     Goethe  in 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  ^93 

the  "Prologue  in  Heaven  "  brings  Mephistopheles  face  to  face 
with  God.  But  Goetlie  devoted  many  years  to  "  his  great  poem, 
Faust,"  and  in  it  lie  too,  as  many  of  the  wise  and  good  believe, 
strove  to  show  rising  out  of  the  blackness  of  darkness  the  attri- 
butes of  Him  whose  eyes  are  too  pure  to  behold  iniquity.  Be  it 
even  so  ;  then,  why  blame  Burns  ?  You  cannot  justly  do  so,  on 
account  of  the  "  daringly  profane  form  "  in  which  "  Holy  Wil- 
lie's Prayer"  is  cast,  without  utterly  reprobating  the  "Prologue 
in  Heaven." 

Of  the  Holy  Fair  few  have  spoken  with  any  serious  reprehen- 
sion.    Dr,  Blair  was  so  much  taken  with  it  that  he  suggested -a 
well  known  emendation — and  for  our  own  part  we  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  saying,  that  we   see  no  rea.son  to  lament  that  it  should 
have  been  written  by  the  writer  of  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night. 
The  title  of  the  poem  was  no  profane  thought  of  his — it  had  ari- 
sen long  before  among  the  people  themselves,  and  expressed  the 
prevalent  opinion  respecting  the  use  and  wont  that  profaned  the 
solemnization  of  the  most  awful  of  all  religious  rites.     In  many 
places,  and  in  none  more  than  in  Mauchline,  the  administration 
of  the  Sacrament  was  hedged  round  about  by  the  self-same  prac- 
tices that  mark  the  character  and  make  the  enjoyment  of  a  Ru- 
ral   Fair-day.     Nobody  doubts    that  in  the  midst  of  them  all 
sat  hundreds  of  pi(9us  people  whose  whole  hearts  and  souls  were 
in  the  divine  service.     Nobody  doubts   that  even   among  those 
who  took  part  in  the  open  or  hardly  concealed  indecencies  \vhich 
custom  could  never  make  harmless,  though  it  made  many  insen- 
sible to  their  grossness,  not  a  few  were  now  and  then  visited  with 
devout  thoughts;  nay,  that  some,  in  spite  of  their  improprieties, 
whicii  fell  olf  from  them  unawares,  or  were  by  an  act  of  pious 
volition  dismissed,  were  privileged  to  partake  of  the  commnnion 
elements.     Nobody  supposes  that  the  heart  of  such  an  assem- 
blace  was  to  be  judged  from  its'outside — that  there  was  no  com- 
.posed  depth  beneath  that  restless  surface'.     But  everybody  knows 
that  there  was  fatal  desecration   of  the   spirit  that   should  have 
reigned  there,  and  that  the  thoughts   of  this  world  were    para- 
mount at  a  time  and  place  set  apart,  under  sanctions  and  denun- 
ciations, the  most,  awful,  to  the  remembrance  of  Him  who  pur- 
cfiased  for  us  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 


* 
94  THE  GENIUS  AND 


We  believe,  then,  that  Burns  was  not  guilty  in  this  poem  of 
any  intentional  irreverence  toward,  the  public  ordinances  of  re- 
lii^ion.     It  does  not,  in  our  opinion,  aiTord   any  reason  for  sup- 
posing that  he  was  among  the  number  of  those  who  regard  such 
ordinances  as  of  littje  or  no   avail,  because  they  do  not  always 
exemplify  the  reverence  which  becomes  men  in  the  act  of  com- 
muning with  their  God.     Such  is  the  constitution  of  human  na- 
ture  that  there  are  too  many  moments  in  the  very  article  of  these 
solemn  occasions  when  the  hearts  of  men  are  a  prey  to  all  their 
wonted  cares  and   follies;  and   this   short-coming  in  ihe  whole 
solemnity  robs  it  to  many  a  delicate  and  well-disposed,  but  not 
thoroughly  instructed  imagination,  of  all  attraction.     But  there 
must  be  a  worship  by  communities  as  well  as  by  individuals  ; 
for  in  the  regards  of  Providence,  communities  appear  to  have  a 
personality  as  well  as   individuals;  and   how  shall  the  worship 
of  communities   be   conducted,   but    by   forms  and   ceremonies, 
which  as  they  occur  at  stated  times,  whatever  be  the  present 
frame  of  men's  minds,  must  be  often  gone  through  with  cold- 
ness.   If  those  persons  would  duly  consider  the  necessity  of  such 
ordinances,  and  their  use  in  the  conservation  of  religion,  they 
would'hold  them  sacred,  in  spite  of  the  levity  and  hypocrisy  that 
too  often  accompany  their  observance,  nor  would  they  wondey 
to  see  among  the  worshippers  an   unsuspected  attention  to   ihe 
things  of  this  world.     But  there  was  far  more  than  this  in  the 
desecration  whioi)  called  for  "  the   Holy  Fair"  from  Burns.     A 
divine  ordinance  had  through  unhallowed  custom   been  overlaid 
by  abuses,  if  not  to  the  extinction,  assuredly  to  the  suppression, 
in  n\imert5us  communicants,  of  the   religious  spirit  essential  to 
its  efficacy  ;   and  in  that  fact  we  liave  to  look*  for  a  defence  of 
the   audacity  of  his  sarcasm;   we  are,  to   believe  tiiat  the  Poet 
felt  strong  in  tlic  possession  of  a  reverence  far  greater  than  that 
which  he  beheld,  and  in  the  conviction   that   notiiing  which   he 
treated    with  levity  could   be  otherwise  than   displeasing   in   the 
eye  of  God.     We   are  far  from  seeking   to  place   him,  on   this 
occasion,  by  the  side  of  those  men  who,  "  strong,  in  hatred  of 
idolatry,"  become  religious  reformers,  and  while  purifying  Faith, 
unsparingly  shattered  Forms,  not  without  violence  to  the  cherished 
emotions  of  many  pious  hearts.     Yet  their  wit  too  was  oUen 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


aimed  at  faulty  things  standing  in  close  connection  with  soleinni- 
ties  which  wit  cannot  approach  without  danger.  Could  such 
scenes  as  those  against  which  Burns  directed  the  battery  of"  his 
ridicule  be  endured  now?  Would  they  not  be  felt  to  be  most 
profane  ?  And  may  we  not  attribute  the  change  in  some  measure 
to  the  Comic  Muse  1 

Burns  did  not  need  to  have  subjects  for  poetry  pointed  out  and 
enumerated  to  him,  latent  or  patent  in  Scottish  Life,  as  was  con- 
siderately done  in  a  series  of  dullish  verses  by  that  excellent 
person,  Mr.  Telford,  Civil  Engineer.  Why,  it  has  been  asked, 
did  he  not  compose  a  Sacred  Poem  on  the  administration  of  the 
Sacrament  of  our  Lord's  Last  Supper?  The  answer  is — how 
could  he  with  such  scenes  before  his  eyes  ?  Was  he  to  shut 
them,  and  to  desoribe  it  as  if  such  scenes  were  not  ?  Was  he 
to  introduce  them,  and  give  us  a  poem  of  a  mixed  kind,  faithful 
to  the  truth  ?  From  such  profanation  his  genius  was  guarded 
by  his  sense  of  religion,  whichthough  defective  was  fervent,  and 
not  unaccompanied  with  awe.  Observe  in  what  he  has  written, 
how  he  keeps  aloof  from  the  Communion  Table.  Not  for  one 
moment  does  he  in  thought  enter  the  doors  of  the  House  of  God. 
There  is  a  total  separation  between  the  outer  scene  and  the 
inner  sanctuary — the  administration  of  the  sacrament  is  removed 
out  of  all  those  desecrating  circumstances,  and  left  to  the  imasri- 
nation  of  the  religious  mind — by  his  silence.  Would  a  great 
painter  have  dared  to  give  us  ti  picture  of  it  ?  Harvey  has 
painted,  simply  and  sublimely,  a  "  Hill  Sacrament."  But  tiiere 
all  is  solemn  in  the  light  of  expiring  day  ;  the  peace  that  passeth 
all  understanding  reposes  on  the  heads  of  all  the  communi- 
cants; and  in  a  spot  sheltered  from  the  persecutor  by  the  soli- 
tuiie  of  sympathizing  nature,  the  humble  and  the  contrite,  in  a 
ritual  hallowed  by  their  pious  forefathers,  draw  near  at  his 
bidding  to  their  Redeemer. 

We  must  now  return  to  Burns  himself,  but  cannot  allow  him 
to  leave  Ellisland  without  dwellinor  for  a  little  while  longer  on 
the  happy  life  he  led  for  tliree  years  and  more  on  that  pleasant 
farm.  Now  and  then  you  hear  him  low-spirited  in  his  letters, 
but  generally  cheerful  J"  and  though  his  affairs  were  not  verv 
prosperous,  there   was  comfort  in  his   household.     There    w;vs 

9 


<j6  the  genius  and 


peace  and  plenty  ;  for  Mrs.  Burns  was  a  good  manager,  and  he 
was  not  a  bad  one  ;  and  one  way  and  another  the  family  enjoyed 
an  honest  livelihood.  The  house  had  been  decently  furnished, 
the  farm  well  stocked ;  and  they  wanted  nothing  to  satisfy  their 
sober  wishes.  Three  years  after  marriage,  Burns,  with  his  Jean 
at  his  side,  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlap,  "  as  fine  a  figure  and  face 
we  can  produce  as  any  rank  of  life  whatever ;  rustic,  native 
grace ;  unaffected  modesty,  and  unsullied  purity ;  nature's 
niother-wit.  and  the  rudiments  of  taste ;  a  simplicity  of  soul, 
unsuspicious  of,  because  unacquainted  with,  the  ways  of  a  selfish, 
interested,  disingenuous  world  ;  and  the  dearest  charm  of  all 
the  rest,  a  yielding  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  a  generous 
warmth  of  heart,  grateful  for  love  on  our  part,  and  ardently 
glowing  with  a  more  than  equal  return  ;  these,  with  a  healthy 
frame,  a  sound,  vigorous  constitution,  which  your  higher  ranks 
can  scarcely  ever  hope  to  enjoy,  are  the  charms  of  lovely  woman 
in  mv  humble  walk  of  life."  Josiah  Walker,  however,  writinor 
many  years  after,  expresses  his  belief  that  Burns  did  not  love 
his  wife.  "  A  discerning  reader  will  perceive,"  says  he,  "  that 
the  letters  in  which  he  announces  his  marriage  are  written  in 
that  state,  when  Uie  mind  is  pained  by  reflecting  on  an  unwel- 
come step; -and  finds  relief  to  itself  in  seeking  arguments  to 
justify  the  deed,  and  lessen  its  disadvantages  in  the  opinion  of 
others.  But  the  greater  the  change  which  the  taste  of  Burns 
had  undergone,  and  the  more  his  hopes  of  pleasure  must  in  con- 
sequence have  been  diminished,  from  rendering  Miss  Armour 
his  only  female  companion,  the  more  credit  does  he  deserve  for 
that  rectitude  of  resolution,  which  prompted  him  to  fulfil  what 
he  considered  as  an  engagement,  and  to  act  as  a  necessary  duty 
prescribed  We  may  be  at  the  same  time  permitted  to  lament 
the  necessity  which  he  had  thus  incurred.  A  marriage,  from 
a  sentiment  of  duty,  may  by  circumstances  be  rendered  indis- 
pensable ;  but  as  it  is  undeniably  a  duty,  not  to  be  accomplished 
by  any  temporary  exertion,  however  great,  but  calling  for  a  re- 
newal of  effort  every  year,  every  day,  and  every  hour,  it  is 
putting  the  strength  and  constancy  of  our  principles  to  the  most 
severe  and  hazardous  trial.  Had  Burns  completed  his  rharriage, 
before  perceiving  the  interest  which  he  had  the  power  of  cre- 
ating in  females,  whose  accomplishments  of  mind  and   manners 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  97 


Jean  could  never  liope  to  equal  ;  or  liad  liis  duty  and  liis  pride 
p(  rinitted  his  alliance  witii  one  of  that  superior  class,  many  of 
his  subsequent  deviations  from  sobriety  and  happiness  might 
probably  have  been  prevented.  It  was  no  fault  of  Mrs.  Burns, 
that  she  was  unable,  from  her  education,  to  furnish  what  had 
fjrown,  since  the  period  of  their  first  acquaintance,  one  of  the 
poet's  most  exquisite  enjoyments ;  and  if  a  daily  vacuity  of 
interest  at  home  e.xhausted  his  patience,  and  led  him  abroad  in 
quest  of  exercise  for  the  activity  of  his  mind,  those  who  can 
place  themselves  in  a  similar  situation  will  not  be  inclined  to 
judge  too  severely  of  his  error."  Mrs.  Burns,  you  know,  was 
alive  when  this  philosophical  stuff  was  published,  and  she  lived 
for  more  than  twenty  years  after  it,  as  exemplary  a  widow  as 
she  had  been  a  wife.  Its  gross  indelicacy — say  rather  wanton 
insult  to  all  the  feelings  of  a  woman,  is  abhorrent  to  all 
t.ie  feelings  of  a  man  and  shows  the  monk.  And  we  have 
quoted  it  now  that  you  may  see  what  vile  liberties  respect- 
able libellers  were  lonff  wont  to  take  with  Burns  and  all  that 
belonged  to  him — because  he  was  a  Ganger.  Who  would 
have  dared  to  write  thus  of  the  wife  and  widow  of  a — Gentleman 
— of  one  who  was  a  Lady  1  Not  Josiah  Walker.  Yet  it  passed 
for  years  unreproved — the  "  Life  "  which  contains  it  still  circu- 
lates, and  seems  to  be  in  some  repute — and  Josiah  Walker  on 
another  occasion  is  cited  to  the  rescue  by  George  Thomson  as  a 
champion  and  vindicator  of  the  truth.  The  insolent  eulogist 
dared  to  say  that  Robert  Burns  in  marrying  Jean  Armour,  "  re- 
paired seduction  by  the  most  precious  sacrifice,  short  of  life, 
which  one  human  being  can  make  to  another  !  "  To  her,  in  e;c- 
press  terms,  he  attributes  her  husband's  misfortunes  and  mis- 
doings— to  her  who  soothed  his  sorrows,  forgave  his  sins,  inspired 
his  songs,  cheered  his  hearth,  blest  his  bed,  educated  his  chil- 
dren, revered  his  memory,  and  held  sacred  his  dust. 

What  do  you  think  was,  according  to  his  biographer,  the  cliief 
cause  of  the  blameable  life  Burns  led  at  Ellisland  ?  He  knew 
not  what  to  do  loilh  himself!  "  When  not  occupied  in  the  fields, 
his  time  must  have  hung  heavy  on  his  hands!"  Just  picture  to 
yourself  Burns  peevishly  pacing  the  "half-parlor  half-kitchen  " 
floor,  with  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets,  tormenting  his  dull 


D8  THE  GENIUS  AND 


brain  to  invent  some  emnlovment  bv  which  he  nnight  be  en- 
abled  to  resist  the  temptation  of  going  to  bed  in  the  fore- 
noon in  his  clothes!  But  how  is  this  ?  "  When  not  occupied  in 
the  fields,  his  time  must  have  hung  heavy  on  his  hands;  for  we 
are  not  to  infer,  from  the  literary  eminence  of  Burns,  that,  like 
a  person  regularly  trained  to  studious  habits,  he  could  render 
himself  by  study  independent  of  society.  He  could  read  and 
write  when  occasion  prompted ;  but  he  could  not,  like  a  profes- 
sional scholar,  become  so  interested  in  a  daily  course  of  lettered 
industry,  as  to  find  company  an  interruption  rather  than  a  relief.'''' 
^V'e  cheerfully  admit  that  Burns  was  not  engaged  at  Ellisland  on 
a  History  of  the  World.  He  had  not  sufficient  books.  Besides, 
he  had  to  ride,  in  good  smuggling  weather,  two  hundred  miles 
a- week.  But  we  cannot  admit  that  "to  banish  dejection,  and  to 
fill  his  vacant  hours,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  should  have  re- 
sorted to  such  associates  as  his  new  neigiiborhood,  or  the  inns 
upon  the  road  to  Ayrshire,  could  aflord  ;  and  if  these  happened 
to  be  of  a  low  description,  that  his  constant  ambition  to  render 
himself  an  Important  and  interesting  figure  in  every  society,  made 
him  suit  his  conduct  and  conversation  to  their  taste."  When 
not  on  duty,  the  Exciseman  was  to  be  found  at  home  like  other 
farmers,  and  when  "  not  occupied  in  the  fields  "  with  farm-work, 
lie  might  be  seen  playing  with  Sir  William  Wallace  and  other 
Scottish  heroes  in  miniature,  two  or  three  pet  sheep  of  the  qua- 
druped breed  sharmg  in  the  vagaries  of  the  bipeds;  or  striding 
along  the  Scaur  with  his  Whangee  rod  in  his  fist,  with  w!iich, 
had  time  hung  heavy  on  his  hands,  he  would  have  cracked  the 
skull  of  old  Chronos ;  or  sitting  on  a  divot-dyke  with  the  ghost 
of  Tam  O'  Shanter,  Captain  Henderson,  and  the  Earl  of  Glen- 
cairn  ;  or,  so  it  is  recorded,  "on  a  rock  projecting  into  the  Nith 
(which  we  have  looked  for  in  vain)  employed  in  angling,  with  a 
cap  made  of  a  fox's  skin  on  his  head,  a  loose  great-coat  fixed 
round  him  by  a  belt,  from  which  depended  an  enormous  High- 
land broadsword  ;"  or  with  his  legs  under  the  fir,  with  the  fa- 
mous Black  Bowl  sending  up  a  Scotch  mist  in  which  were  visi- 
ble the  wigs  of  two  orthodox  English  clergymen,  "  to  whose 
tastes  his  constant  ambition  to  render  himself  an  important  and 
interesting  figure   in  every  society,  made  him  suit  his  conduct 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  99 


and  conversation  ;" — in  such  situations  might  Josiah  Walker 
have  stumbled  upon  Burns,  and  perhaps  met  with  his  own  friend, 
"a  clergyman  from  the  south  of  England,  who,  on  his  return, 
talked  with  rapture  of  his  reception,  and  of  all  that  he  had  seen 
and  heard  in  the  cottage  of  Eilisland,"  or  with  Ramsay  of 
Oughtertyre,  who  was  delighted  "  with  Burns's  uxor  Snbina  qualis 
and  the  poet's  modest  mansion,  so  unlike  the  habitations  of  ordi- 
nary rustics,"  the  very  evening  the  Bard  suddenly  bounced  in 
upon  us,  and  said  as  he  entered,  "1  come,  to  use  the  words  of 
Shakspeare,  '  stewed  in  haste,'  "  and  in  a  little  while,  such  was  the 
f  )rce  and  versatility  of  his  genius,  he  made  the  tears  run  down 

Mr.  L 's  cheeks,  albeit   "  unused  to  the  poetic  strain;" — or 

who  knows  but  the  pedestrian  might  have  found  the  poet  engaged 
in  religious  exercises  under  the  sylvan  shade  ?  For  did  he  not 
write  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  I  own  myself  so  little  of  a  presbyterian, 
that  I  approve  of  set  times  and  seasons  of  more  than  ordinary  acts 
of  devotion,  for  breaking  in  on  that  habitual  routine  of  life  'and 
thought  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our  existence  to  a  kind  of  in- 
stinct, or  even  sometimes,  and  with  some  minds,  to  a  state  ver}- 
little  superior  to  mere  machinery.  This  day  (New-Year-day 
morning),  the  first  Sunday  of  May,  a  breezy  blue-skyed  noon, 
some  time  before  the  beginning,  and  a  hoary  morning  and  calm 
sunny  day  about  the  end  of  autumn  ;  these,  time  out  of  mind, 
have  been  with  me  a  kind  of  holiday."  Finally,  Josiaii  might 
have  made  his  salaam  to  the  Exciseman  just  as  he  was  folding 
up  that  letter  in  whicii  he  says,  "we  know  nothing,  or  next  to 
nothing,  of  the  substance  or  .structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot  ac- 
count for  those  seeming  caprices  or  whims,  that  one  should  be 
particularly  pleased  with  this  thing  or  struck  with  that,  which,  in 
minds  of  a  difFercnt  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I 
have  some  favorite  (lowers  in  spring,  among  which  are  the  moun- 
tain daisy,  the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the  wild-brier  rose,  the 
budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang 
over  with  particular  delight.  I  never  hear  the  loud  solitary 
whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  ca- 
dence of  a  troop  of  grey  plovers,  in  an  autumnal  morning,  with- 
out feelinij  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion 
or   poetry.      Toll    mo,  my  dear    fi-ifnd,  to  what  can    all    this    be 

9- 


JOO  THE  GENIUS  AND 


owing?  Are  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  ^Eolian 
iiarp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  accident  ?  Oi 
do  these  workings  argue  sometliing  witliin  us  ahove  the  trodden 
clod  ?  I  (.  wn  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and 
important  realities — a  God  that  made  all  things — man's  immate- 
rial and  immortal  nature — and  a  world  of  weal  or  wo  beyond 
death  and  the  grave." 

Burns  however  found  that  an  active  gauger,  with  ten  parishes 
to  look  alter,  could  not  be  a  successful  farmer;  and  looking 
forward  to  promotion  in  the  Excise,  he  gave  up  his  lease,  and 
on  his  appomtment  to  another  district  removed  into  Dumfries. 
'J'he  greater  part  of  his  small  capital  had  been  sunk  or  scattered 
on  the  somewhat  stony  soil  of  Ell  island  ;  but  with  his  library 
and  furniture — his  wife  and  his  children — his  and  their  wearing 
apparel — a  trifle  in  ready  money — no  debt — youth,  health,  and 
hope,  and  a  salary  of  seventy  pounds,  he  did  not  think  himself 
poor.  Such  provision,  he  said,  was  luxury  to  what  either  he  or 
his  better-half  had  been  born  to — and  the  flitting  from  Ellisland, 
accompanied  as  it  was  with  the  regrets  and  respect  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, displayed  on  the  whole  a  cheerful  cavalcade. 

It  is  remarked  by  Mr.  Lockhart  that  Burns's  "four  principal 
biographers,  Heron,  Currie,  Walker  and  Irving,  concur  in  the 
general  statement  that  his  moral  course,  from  the  time  that  he 
settled  in  Dumfries,  was  downwards."  Mr.  Lockhart  has  shown 
that  they  have  one  and  all  committed  many  serious  errors  in  this 
"  eeneral  statement,"  and  we  too  shall  examine  it  before  we 
concludfi.  Meanwhile  let  us  direct  our  attention,  not  to  his 
"moral  course,"  but  to  the  course  of  his  genius.  It  continued 
to  burn  bright  as  ever,  and  if  the  character  of  the  man  corres- 
ponded in  its  main  features  with  tiiat  of  the  poet,  which  we  be- 
lieve it  did,  its  best  vindication  will  be  found  in  a  right  under- 
standing of  the  spirit  that  animated  his  genius  to  the  last,  and 
gave  birth  to  perhaps  its  finest  etfusions — his  matchless  songs. 

In  his  earliest  Journal,  we  find  this  beautiful  passage: — 

"There  is  a  noble  sublimity,  a  heart-melting  tenderness,  in 
some  of  our  ancient  ballads,  which  show  them  to  be  the  work  of 
a  masterly  hand  :  and  it  has  often  given  me  many  a  heart-ache 
to  reflect,  that  such  glorious  old   bards — bards  who  very  proba- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  101 

bly  owed  all  tlieir  talents  to  native  genius,  yet  have  described 
tlie  exploits  of  heroes,  tlie  pangs  of  disappoiutnient,  and  the  melt- 
ings of  love,  with  such  fine  strokes  of  nature: — that  their  very 
names  (O  how  mortifying  to  a  bard's  vanity  !)  are  non'  '  buried 
among  the  wreck  of  things  which  were.'  O  ye  illustrious 
names  unknown!  who  could  feel  so  stiongly  and  describe  so 
well  ;  the  last,  the  meanest  of  the  Muse's  train — one  who,  though 
far  inferior  to  your  flights,  yet  eyes  your  path,  and  with  trem- 
bliiiii  wing  would  sometimes  soar  after  you — a  poor  rustic  bard, 
unknown,  pays  this  sympathetic  pang  to  your  memory!  Some 
of  you  tell  us,  with  all  the  charms  of  verse,  that  you  have  been 
unfortunate  in  the  world — unfortunate  in  love  ;  he  too  has  felt 
the  loss  of  his  little  fortune,  the  loss  of  friends,  and,  worse  than 
all,  the  loss  of  tiie  woman  he  adored.  Like  you,  all  his  conso- 
lation was  his  muse.  She  taught  him  in  rustic  riicasurcs  to 
complain.  Happy  could  he  have  done  it  with  your  strength  of 
imaf^ination  and  flow  of  verse  !  Mav  the  turf  lie  liyhtlv  on 
vour  bones!  and  may  you  now  enjoy  that  solace  and  rest  which 
this  world  rarely  gives  to  the  heart  tuned  to  all  the  feelings  of 
poesy  and  love." 

The  old  nameless  song-writers,  buried  centuries  ago  in  the 
kirk-yards  that  have  themselves  perhaps  ceased  to  exist — yet 
one  sees  sometimes  lonesome  burial-places  among  the  hills, 
where  man's  dust  continues  to  be  deposited  after  the  house  of 
God  has  been  removed  elsewhere — the  old  nameless  song-writers 
took  hold  out  of  their  stored  hearts  of  some  single  thouyht  or 
remembrance  surpassingly  sweet  at  the  moment  over  all  others, 
and  instantly  words  as  sweet  had  being,  and  breathed  them- 
selves forth  along  with  some  accordant  melody  of  the  still  more 
olden  time  ; — or  when  musical  and  poetical  genius  hap[)ily  met 
together,  l)()th  alike  passion-insjjired,  then  was  born  another  new 
tune  or  air  soon  treasured  within  a  thousand  nmidens'  hearts, 
and  soon  flowing  from  lips  that  "murmured  near  the  living 
brooks  a  music  sweeter  than  their  own."  Had  boy  or  virgin 
faded  awav  in  untimely  death,  and  the  {rreen  mound  tluit  covered 
them,  by  the  working  of  some  secret  power  far  within  the  heart, 
suddenly  risen  to  fancy's  eye,  and  then  as  suddenly  s'.inl>  awuy 
into  oblivion  with  all   the   wavering   burial-place  ?     Then  was 


102  THE  GENIUS  AND 


framed  dirge,  hymn,  ology,  that  long  after  the  mourned  and  the 
mourner  were  forgotten,  continued  to  wail  and  lament  up  and 
down  all  the  vales  of  Scotland — for  what  vale  is  unvisited  by 
sorrow — in  one  same  monotonous  melanciioly  air,  varied  only 
as  each  separate  singer  had  her  heart  touched,  and  her  face 
saddened,  witii  a  fainter  or  stronger  shade  of  pity  or  grief! 
Ilud  some  great  battle  been  lost  and  won,  and  to  the  shepherd 
on  tlie  braes  had  a  faint  and  far-off  sound  seemed  on  a  sudden 
to  touch  the  horizon  like  the  echo  of  a  trumpet?  Then  had 
some  ballad  its  birth,  heroic  yet  with  dying  falls,  for  the  singer 
wept,  even  as  his  heart  burned  within  him,  over  the  princely 
head  prostrated  with  all  its  plumes,  haply  near  the  lowly  woods- 
man, whose  horn  had  often  startled  the  deer  as  together  they 
trode  the  forest-chase,  lying  humble  in  death  by  his  young  lord's 
feet! — O,  blue-eyed  maidenj  even  more  beloved  than  beautiful  J 
how  couldst  thou  ever  find  heart  to  desert  thy  minstrel,  who  for 
thy  sake  would  have  died  without  one  sigh  given  to  the  disap- 
pearing  happiness  of  sky  and  earth — and,  witched  by  some  evil 
spell,  how  couldst  thou  follow  an  outlaw  to  foreign  lands,  to 
find,  alas  !  some  day  a  burial  in  the  great  deep  ?  Thus  was 
encnained  in  sounds  the  complaint  of  disappointed,  defrauded, 
and  despairing  passion,  and  anotI)er  air  filled  the  eyes  of  our 
Scottish  maidens  with  a  new  luxury  of  tears — a  low  flat  tune, 
surcharged  throughout  with  one  groan-like  sigh,  and  acknow- 
ledged, even  by  the  gayest  heart,  to  be  indeed  the  language  of 
an  incurable  grief! — Or  flashed  the  lover's  raptured  hour  across 
the  brain — yet  an  hour,  in  all  its  rapture,  calm  as  the  summer 
sea — or  the  level  summit  of  a  far  flushing  forest  asleep  in  sun- 
siiine,  when  there  is  not  a  breath  in  heaven  ?  Then  thoughts 
that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn — and,  in  that  wedded  verse 
and  music  you  feel  that  "love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love!" 
But  atTi'ction,  sober,  sedate,  and  solemn,  has  its  sudden  and 
strong  inspirations  ;  sudden  and  strong  as  those  of  the  wildest 
and  most  fiery  passion.  Hence  the  old  grey-haired  poet  and 
musician,  sitting  haply  blind  in  shade  or  sunsliiiie,  and  bethink- 
ing him  of  the  days  of  his  youth,  while  the  leading  hand  of  his 
aged  ^I't^G  geniiy  touches  his  arm,  and  that  voice  of  hers  that 
once  linted  like  the  linnet,  is  now  like  that  of  the  dove  in  its 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  103 

lonely  tree,  mourns  not  for  the  past,  but  gladdens  in  the  present, 
and  sings  a  holy  song — like  one  of  the  songs  of  Zion — for  both 
trust  that,  ere  the  sun  brings  another  summer,  their  feet  will  be 
wandering  by  the  waters  of  eternal  life. 

Thus  haply  might  arise  verse  and  air  of  Scotland's  old  pathe- 
tic melodies.      And  how  her  light  and  airy  measures?         ' 

Streaks  of  sunshine  come  dancing  down  from  heaven  on  the 
darkest  days  to  bless  and  beautify  the  life  of  poverty  dwelling 
in  the  wilderness.  Labor,  as  he  goes  forth  at  morn  from  his 
rustic  lodge,  feels,  to  the  small  bird's  twitter,  his  whole  being 
filled  with  joy  ;  and,  as  he  (juickens  his  pace  to  field  or  wood, 
breaks  into  a  song.  Care  is  noi  always  his  black  companion, 
but  oft,  at  evening  hour — while  innocence  lingers  half-afraid  be- 
hind, yet  still  follows  with  thoughtful  footsteps — Mirth  leads  him 
to  the  circular  seat  beneath  the  tree,  among  whose  exterior 
branches  swings,  creaking  to  and  fro  in  the  wind,  the  signboard 
teaching  friendship  by  the  close  grasp  of  two  emblematical 
hands.  And  thence  the  catch  and  troll,  while  "  laughter  hold- 
ing both  his  sides  "  sheds  tears  to  song  and  ballad  pathetic  on 
the  woes  of  married  life,  and  all  the  ills  that  "our  flesh  is  heir 
to." — Fair,  Rocking,  and  Harvest-home,  and  a  hundred  rural 
festivals,  are  for  ever  giving  wings  to  the  flight  of  the  circling 
year  ;  or  how  could  this  lazy  earth  ever  in  so  short  a  time  whirl, 
spinning  asleep  on  her  axis,  round  that  most  attractive  but  dis- 
tant sun  ?  How  loud,  broad,  deep,  soul-and-body-shaking  is  the 
ploughman's  or  the  shepherd's  mirlh,  as  a  hundred  bold  sun- 
burnt visages  make  the  rafters  of  the  old  hostel  ring  !  Overhead 
the  thunder  of  the  time-keeping  dance,  and  all  the  joyous  tene- 
ment alive  with  love!  The  patlietic  song,  by  genius  steeped  in 
tears,  is  forgotten  ;  roars  of  boorish  laughter  reward  the  fearless 
singer  for  the  ballad  that  brings  burning  blushes  on  every  female 
face,  till  the  snooded  head  can  scarcely  be  lificd  up  again  to 
meet  the  free  kiss  of  affection  bold  in  the  privileges  of  the  festi- 
val, whore  baslifuUiess  is  out  of  season,  and  the  chariest  maid 
witliholds  not  the  harmless  boon  only  half  grunted  b  Mu^ath  the 
milk-white  thorn.  It  seems  as  if  all  the  profounder  interests  oi 
life  were  destroyed,  or  had  never  existed.  In  moods  like  these, 
genius  plays  witii   grief,  and  sports  with  sorrow.     Broad   furce 


104  THE  GENIUS  AND 


shakes  hands  with  deep  tragedy.  Vice  seems  almost  to  be  vir- 
tue's  sister.  The  names  and  the  natures  of  things  are  chano-ed, 
and  all  that  is  mast  holy,  and  most  holily  cherished  by  us  strange 
mortal  creatures — for  which  tliousands  of  men  and  women  have 
died  at  the  stake,  and  would  die  again  rather  than  forfeit  it — 
virgin  love,  and  nuptial  faith,  and  religion  itself  that  saves  us 
from  being  but  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  and  equalizes  us  with 
the  ansels  that  live  for  ever — all  become  for  a  time  seeming  ob- 
jects  of  scoff,  derision,  and  merriment.  But  it  is  not  so,  as  God 
is  in  heaven  it  is  not  so  ;  there  has  been  a  flutter  of  strange 
dancing  lights  on  life's  surface,  but  that  is  all,  its  depths  have 
remained  undisturbed  in  the  poor  man's  nature  ;  and  how  deep 
these  are  you  may  easily  know  by  looking,  in  an  hour  or  two, 
through  that  small  shining  pane,  the  only  one  in  the  hut,  and  be- 
liolding  and  hearing  him,  his  wife  and  children,  on  their  knees 
in  prayer — (how  beautiful  in  devotion  that  same  maiden  now  !) 
not  unseen  by  the  eye  of  Him  who,  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  hea- 
vens, doth  make  our  earth  his  footstool. 

And  thus  the  many  broad-mirth  songs,  and  tales,  and  ballads 
arose,  that  enliven   Scotland's  antique  minstrelsy. 

To  Burns's  ear  all  these  lowly  lays  were  familiar,  and  most 
dear  were  they  all  to  his  heart :  nor  less  so  the  airs  in  which 
they  have  as  it  were  been  so  long  embalmed,  and  will  be  imper- 
ishable, unless  some  fatal  cliange  should  ever  be  wrought  in  the 
manners  of  our  people'.  From  the  first  hour,  and  indeed  long 
before  it,  that  he  composed  his  rudest  verse,  oficn  liad  he  sung 
aloud  "old  songs  that  are  the  music  of  the  heart;"  and  some 
day  or  other  to  be  able  himself  to  breathe  such  strains,  had  been 
his  dearest,  his  highest  ambition.  His  "genius  and  his  moral 
frame"  were  thi\s  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  our  old  traditionary 
ballad  poetry  ;  and  as  soon  as  all  his  manifold  passions  were 
ripe,  and  his  whole  glorious  being  in  full  maturity,  the  voice  of 
song  was  on  all  occasions  of  deepest  and  tenderest  human  inter- 
est, the  voice  of  his  daily,  his  nightly  speech.  He  wooed  each 
maiden  in  song  that  will,  as  long  as  our  Doric  dialect  is  breathed 
by  love  in  beauty's  ears,  be  murmured  close  to  the  cheek  of  In- 
nocence trembling  in  the  arms  of  Passion.  It  was  in  some  such 
dream  of  delight  that,  wandering  all   by  himself  to  seek  the 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  •      105 

muse  by  some  "trotting  burn's  meander,"  he  found  his  face 
breathed  upon  by  the  wind,  as  it  was  turned  toward  tlie  rcfrion 
of  the  setting  sun  ;  and  in  a  moment  it  was  as  the  pure  breath 
of  his  beloved,  and  he  exclaimed  to  the  conscious  stars, 

"  Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west; 
For  there  the  bonny  lassie  lives, 

The  lass  that  I  lo'e  best  !'= 

How  different,  yet  how  congenial  to  that  other  strain,  which 
ends  like  the  last  sound  of  a  funeral  bell,  when  the  age:'  have 
been  buried  : 

"  We'll  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson,  my  joe  !" 

These  old  songs  were  his  models,  because  they  were  models  of 
certain   forms  of  feeling  havinij  a  necessary  and  eternal  exist- 
ence.     Feel  as  those  who  breathed  them  felt,  and  if  you  uUe\ 
your  feelings,  the   utterance  is  song.     Burns  did    feel  as  they) 
felt,  and  looked  with   the  same  eyes  on   the  same  o!)jects.     Sc 
entirely  was  their  language  his  language,  that  all  the  beautiful; 
lines,  and  half  lines,  and  single  words,  that,  because  of  something/ 
in  them  more  exquisitely  true  to  nature,  had  survived  all  the  rest 
/of  the  compositions  to  which  they  had  long  ago  belonged,  were 
^fiometimes  adopted  by  him,  almost  unconsciously  it  might  seem, 
in   his  finest  inspirations  ;  and  oftener  still  sounded   in   his  ear 
like  a  key-note,  on  which  he  pitched  his  own  plaintive  tune  of 
the  heart,  till  the  voice  and  language  of  the"  old   and  new  days 
were  but  as  one  ;   and  the  maiden  who  sung  to  herself  the  song 
by  her  wheel,  or   on  the  brae,  quite  lost  in  a  wavering  world  of 
phantasy,  could  not,  as  she  smiled,  choose  but  ahso  weep! 

So  far  from  detracting  from  the  originality  of  his  lyrics,  this 
impulse  to  composition  greatly  increased  it,  while  it  gave  to  them 
a  more  touching  character  than  perhaps  ever  could  have  hc- 
longe3'!o"them,  had  they  not  breathed  at  all  of  antiquity.  Old 
but  not  obsolete,  a  word  familiar  to  the  lips  of  human  beings  who 
lived  ages  ago,  but  tinged  with  a  slight  shade  of  strangeness  as 


]06  THE  GENIUS  AND 


it  flows  from  our  own,  connects  the  speaker,  or  the  singer,  in  a 
way,  though  "  mournful,  yet  pleasant  to  the  soul,"  with  past 
generations,  and  awaktins  a  love  at  once  more  tender  and  more 
imaginative  towards  "  auld  Scotland."  We  think,  even  at 
limes  wiien  thus  excited,  of  other  Burnses  who  died  without  their 
fame  ;  and,  glorying  in  him  and  his  name,  we  love  his  poetry 
i!ie  more  deeply  for  tiie  sake  of  him  whose  genius  has  given  our 
native  land  a  new  title  of  honor  among  the  nations.  Assuredly 
Burns  is  felt  to  be  a  Scotchman  inius  etin  cute  in  all  his  poetry; 
but  not  more  even  in  his  "  Tam  o'Siianter  "  and  "  Cottar's  Satur- 
day night,"  his  two  longest  and  most  elaborate  composhions, 
than  in  one  and  all  of  his  innumerable  and  inimitable  songs,  from 
"  Daintie  Davie,"  to  "  Thou  lingering  star."  We  know  too 
that  the  composition  of  songs  was  to  him  a  perfect  happiness 
that  continued  to  the  close  of  life — an  inspiration  that  shot  its 
light  and  heat,  it  may  be  said,  within  the  very  borders  of  his 
grave. 

In  his  "  Common-place  or  Scrap  Book,  begun  in  April,  1783," 
there  are  many  fine  reflections  on  Song-writing,  besides  that  ex- 
quisite invocation — showing  how  early  Burns  had  studied  it  as 
an  arl._  We  have  often  heard  some  of  his  popular  songs  found 
fault  witJi  for  their  imperfect  rhymes — so  imperfect,  indeed,  as 
not  to  be  called  rhymes  at  all ;  and  we  acknowledge  that  we 
rLiiiember  the  time  when  we  used  reluctantly  to  yield  a  dis- 
satified  assent  to  such  objections.  Thus  in  "  Highland  Ma'ry  " 
— an  impassioned  strain  of  eight  quatrains — strictly  speaking 
there  are  no  rhymes — Montgomery,  driimlic ;  tarry,  Mary; 
blossom,  bosom  ;  dearie,  Mary  ;  tender,  asunder  ;  early,  Mary  ; 
fondly, ■kimlly  ;  dearly,  Mary.  It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  here, 
and  in  other  instances,  Burns  was  imitatitig  tlie  manner  of  some 
of  the  old  songs — indulirintj  in  the  same  license  ;  lor  he  would 
not  have  done  so,  had  he  thought  it  an  imperfection.  He  felt 
that  there  must  l)e  a  reason  in  nature  why  this  was  sometimes  so 
pleasing — why  it  sometimes  gave  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of 
art.  Tiiose  minnesingers  had  all  musical  ears,  and  were  right. 
in  believing  tlir^m.  Their  ears  told  them  that  such  words  as 
these-  -meeting  on  their  tympana  under  tlie  modifying  influence 
of  *une,  were   virtually  rhymes  ;   and  as   such  they  "  slid   into 


CHARACTER   OP^  BURNS.  107 

tlieir  souls."  "  There  is,"  says  Burns  in  a  passage  unaccounta- 
bly omitted  by  Carrie,  and  ''Irst  given  by  Croniek — "  a  great 
irregularity  in  tlie  old  Sc<"Lch  songs — a  redundancy  of  syllables 
with  respect  to  that  exactness  of  accent,  and  measure  that  the 
English  poetry  requires — but  wlnnli  glides  in  most  melodiously 
with  the  respective  tunes  to  which  they  are  set.  For  instance, 
the  fine  old  song  of  The  ?nill,  mill  O — to  give  it  a  plain  prosaic 
reading — it  halts  prodigiously  out  of  measure.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  song  set  to  the  same  tune  in  Bi'emner's  Collection  of 
Scotch  songs,  which  begins,  To  Fanny  fair  could  I  impart,  SfC. — 
it  is  most  exact  measure  ;  and  yet,  let  them  both  be  sung  before 
a  real  critic,  one  above  the  biases  of  prejudice,  but  a  thorough 
judgeof  nature,  how  flat  and  spiritless  will  the  last  appear,  how  trite 
and  lamely  methodical,  compared  with  the  wild,  warbling  cadence 
— the  heart-moving  melody  of  the  first.  This  is  particularly  the 
case  with  all  those  airs  which  end  with  a  hypermetrical  syllable. 
There  is  a  degree  of  wild  irregularity  in  many  of  the  composi- 
tions and  fragments  which  are  daily  sung  to  them  by  my  com- 
peers— the  common  people — a  certain  happy  arrangement  of  old 
Scotch  syllables,  and  yet  very  frequently  nothing — not  even  like 
rhyme — or  sameness  of  jingle,  at  the  end  of  the  lines.  This  has 
made  me  sometimes  imagine  that  perhaps  it  might  be  possible  for 
a  Scotch  poet,  with  a  nice  judicious  ear,  to  set  compositions  to 
many  of  our  most  favorite  airs — particularly  the  class  of  them 
mentioned  above — independent  of  rhyme  altogether." 

It  is  a  common  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  world  is  indebted  . 
tor  most  of  Burns's  songs  to  George  Thomson.  He  contributed 
to  that  gentleman  sixty  original  songs,  and  a  noble  contribution  it 
was;  besides  hints,  suggestions,  emendations,  and  restorations 
innumerable  ;  but  three  times  as  many  were  written  by  him, 
emended  or  restored,  for  Johnson's  Scots'  Musical  Museum. 
He  began  to  send  songs  to  Johnson,  with  whom  he  had  become 
intimately  acquainted  on  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh,  early  in 
1787,  and  continued  to  send  them  till  within  a  few  days  of  his 
death.  In  November,  1789,  lie  says  to  Jolinson,  "I  can  easily 
see,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  will  probably  have  four  volumes. 
Perhaps  you  may  not  find  your  account  lucratively  in  this  busi- 
ness;  but  you  are  a  patriot  for  the  music  of  your  country,  and  I 

10 


108  THE  GENIUS  AND 


am  certain  posterity  will  look  on  themselves  as  highly  indebted 
to  your  public  spirit.  Be  not  in  a  hurry  ;  let  us  go  on  correctly, 
and  your  name  will  be  immortal.''"  On  the  4th  of  July,  1790 — 
he  died  on  the  21st — he  writes  from  Dumfries  to  the  worthy 
music-seller  in  Edinburgh  :  "  How  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  and 
how  comes  on  your  fifth  volume  ?  You  may  probably  think  that 
for  some  time  past  I  have  neglected  you  and  your  work;  but, 
alas !  the  hand  of  pain,  sorrow,  and  care,  has  these  many 
months  lain  heavy  on  me.  Personal  and  domestic  affliction  have 
almost  entirely  banished  that  alacrity  and  life  with  which  I  used 
to  woo  the  rural  muse  of  Scotia.  You  are  a  good,  worthy,  honest 
fellow,  and  have  a  good  right  to  live  in  this  world — because  you 
deserve  it.  Many  a  merry  meeting  the  publication  has  given 
us,  and  possibly  it  may  give  us  more,  though,  alas !  I  fear  it. 
This  protracting,  slow,  consuming  illness  which  hangs  over  me, 
will,  I  doubt  much,  my  ever  dear  friend,  arrest  my  sun  before 
he  has  well  reached  his  middle  career,  and  will  turn  over  the 
poet  to  far  more  important  concerns  than  studying  the  brilliancy  of 
wit,  or  the  pathos  of  sentiment.  However,  hope  is  the  cordial  of  the 
human  heart,  and  I  endeavor  to  cherish  it  as  well  as  I  can.  Let 
me  hear  from  vou  as  soon  as  convenient.  Your  work  is  a  jireat 
one,  and  now  that  it  is  finished,  I  see,  if  I  were  to  begin  again, 
two  or  three  things  that  might  be  mended  ;  yet  I  will  venture  to 
prophesy,  that  to  future  ages  your  publication  will  be  the  text- 
book and  standard  of  Scottish  song  and  music.  I  am  ashamed 
to  ask  another  favor  of  you,  because  you  have  been  so  very  good 
already  ;  but  my  wife  has  a  very  particular  friend  of  hers — a 
young  lady  who  sings  well — to  wiom  she  wishes  to  present  the 
Scots'  Musical  Museum.  If  you  have  a  spare  copy,  will  you  be 
so  obliging  as  to  send  it  by  the  first  Fly,  as  I  am  anxious  to  have 
it  soon." 

Turn  from  James  Johnson  and  his  Scots'  Musical  Museum 
for  a  moment  to  George  Thomson  and  his  Collection.  In  Sep- 
tember, 1792,  Mr.  Thomson — who  never  personally  knew  Burns 
— tells  him  "  for  some  years  past  I  have,  with  a  friend  or  two, 
employed  many  leisure  hours  in  selecting  and  collating  the  most 
favorite  of  our  national  melodies  for  publication  ;  "  and  says — 
''  We  will  este?m  your  ooetical  assistance  a  particular  favor: 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  109 

besides  paying  any  reasonable  price  you  shall  please  to  demaml 
for  it."  Burns,  spurning  the  thought  of  being  "  paid  any  rea- 
sonable price,"'  closes  at  once  with  the  proposal.  "  as  the  request 
you  make  to  me  w  ill  positively  add  to  my  enjoyments  in  comply- 
ing with  it,  I  shall  enter  into  your  undertaking  with  all  the 
small  portion  of  abilities  1  have — strained  to  the  utmost  exertion 
by  the  impulse  of  enthusiasm."  That  enthusiasm  for  more  than 
three  years  seldom  languished — it  was  in  his  heart  when  his 
hand  could  hardly  obey  its  bidding  ;  and  on  tl;e  12th  of  July, 
1796 — eight  days  after  he  had  wrillen,  in  the  terms  you  have 
just  seen,  to  James  Johnson  for  a  coj)y  of  his  Scots^  Musical 
Museum — he  writes  thus  to  George  Thomson  for  five  pounds. 
"  After  all  my  boasted  independence,  stern  necessity  compels 
me  to  implore  you  for  five  pounds.  A  cruel  of  a  haber- 
dasher, to  whom  I  owe  an  account,  taking  it  into  his  head  that  I 
am  dying,  has  commenced  a  process,  and  will  infallibly  put  me 
into  jail.  Do  for  God's  sake  send  me  that  sum,  and  that  by  re- 
turn of  post.  Forgive  me  this  earnestness  ;  but  the  horrors  of 
a  jail  have  made  me  half  distracted.  /  do  not  ask-  a'l  this  gra- 
tuitously ;  for  upon  returning  health,  I  hereby  promise  and  en- 
gage to  furnish  you  with  five  pounds  worth  of  the  neatest  song 
genius  you  have  seen.     Forgive  me,  forgive  me  !" 

Mr.  Johnson,  no  doubt,  sent  a  copy  of  the  Museum  ;  but  we 
do  not  know  if  the  Fly  arrived  before  the  Bier.  Mr.  Thomson 
was  prompt :  and  Dr.  Currie,  speaking  of  Burns's  refusal  to 
become  a  weekly  contributor  to  the  Poet's  Corner  in  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle,  at  a  guinea  a  week,  says,  "  Yet,  he  had  for  seve- 
ral years  furnished,  and  was  at  that  time  furnishing,  the  Mu- 
seum of  Johnson,  with  his  beautiful  lyrics,  without  fee  or  re- 
ward, and  was  obstinately  i-efusing  all  recompense  for  his  as- 
sistance  to  the  greater  work  of  Mr.  Thomson,  which  the  justice 
and  generosity  of  that  gentleman  was  pressing  upon  him." 
That  obstinacy  gave  way  at  last,  not  under  the  pressure  of  Mr». 
Thomson's  generosity  and  justice,  but  under  "  the  sense  of  his 
poverty,  and  of  the  approaching  distress  of  his  infant  family 
vvhicii  pressed,"  says  Dr.  Currie  truly,  "  on  Burns  as  he  lay  on 
the  bed  of  death." 

But  we  are  anticipating  ;  and  desire  at  present  to  see  Burns 


110  THE  GENIUS  AND 


*'  in  glory  and  in  joy."  "  Whenever  I  want  to  be  more  than 
ordinary  m  507? o^ ;  to  be  in  some  degree  equal  to  your  diviner 
airs,  do  you  imagine  I  fast  and  pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  ? 
I  have  a  glorious  recipe  ;  the  very  one  that  for  liis  own  use  v.-as 
invented  by  the  divinity  of  healing  and  poetry,  when  erst  he  piped 
to  the  flocks  of  Admetus.  I  put  myself  on  a  regimen  of  admir- 
ing a  fine  woman  ;  and  in  proportion  to  the  admirability  of  her 
charms,  in  proportion  you  are  delighted  with  my  verses.  The 
lightning  of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Parnassus;  and  the 
witchery  of  her  smile,  the  divinity  of  Helicon."  We  know  the 
weak  side  of  his  character — the  sin  that  most  easily  beset  him — 
that  did  indeed  "  stain  his  name" — and  made  him  for  many  sea- 
sons the  prey  of  remorse.  But  though  it  is  not  allowed  to  genius 
to  redeem — though  it  is  falsely  said,  that  "  the  light  that  leads 
astray  is  lieht  from  heaven" — and  though  Burns's  transgres- 
sions  must  be  judged  as  those  of  common  men,  and  visited  with 
the  same  moral  reprobation — yet  surely  we  may  dismiss  them 
with  a  sigh  from  our  knowledge,  for  a  while,  as  we  feel  the  charm 
of  the  exquisite  poetry  originating  in  the  inspiration  of  passion, 
purified  by  genius,  and  congenial  with  the  utmost  innocency  of 
the  virgin  breast. 

Injiis_  LovE^ONGSj  all  that  is  best  in  his  ovvn  being  delight?  to 
brintj  itself  into  communion  with  all  that  is  best  in  theixs-wlwDm 
he  visions  walking  before  him  in  beauty.  That  beauty  is 
made  "still  more  beauteous"  in  the  light  of  his  genius,  and  the 
passion  it  then  moves  partakes  of  tiie  same  etiierial  color.  If 
love  inspired  liis  poetry,  poetry  inspired  his  love,  and  not  only  in- 
spired  but  elevated"  (lie  whole  nature  of  it.  If  the  highest  de- 
lights of  his  genius  were  in  the  conception  and  celebration  of 
female  loveliness,  that  trained  sensibility  was  sure  to  produce 
extraordinary  devotion  to  the  ideal  of  that  loveliness  of  which 
innocence  is  the  very  soul.  If  music  refine  the  manners,  how 
much  more  will  it  have  that  effect  on  him  who  studies  its  spirit, 
as  Burns  did  that  of  the  Scottish  songs,  in  order  to  marry  them 
to  verse  ?  "  Until  I  am  complete  master  of  a  tune  in  my  own 
singing,  such  as  it  is,  I  can  never  compose  for  it.  My  way  is 
this:  I  consider  the  poetic  sentiment  correspondent  to  my  idea 
of  the  musical  expression — then   choose   my  theme — compose 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  Ill 


one  stanza.  When  that  is  composed,  which  is  generally  the 
most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk  out,  sit  down  now  and 
then,  look  out  for  objects  in  nature  round  me  that  are  in  unison 
or  iiarmony  with  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy  and  workings  of 
my  b6som,  humming  every  now  and  then  the  air,  with  the  verses 
I  have  framed.  When  I  feel  my  muse  beginning  to  jade,  I  re- 
tire to  the  solitary  fireside  of  my  study,  and  there  commit  my 
etTusions  to  paper;  swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of  my 
elbow  chair,  bv  way  of  callinij  forth  my  own  critical  strictures, 
as  my  pen  goes.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost  invariably 
my  way."  Then  we  know  that  his  Bonnie  Jean  was  generally 
in  his  presence,  engaged  in  house  affairs,  while  he  was  thus  on 
his  inspiring  swing,  that  she  was  among  the  first  to  hear  each 
new  song  recited  by  her  husband,  and  the  first  to  sing  it  to  him, 
that  he  might  know  if  it  had  been  produced  to  live.  He  has 
said,  tliat  "  musically  speaking,  conjugal  love  is  an  instrument 
of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty  and  confined,  but  the  tones  in- 
expressibly sweet" — that  Love,  not  so  confined,  "  has  powers 
equal  to  all  the  intellectual  modulations  of  the  iiuman  soul." 
But  did  not  those  "  tones  inexpressibly  sweet"  often  mingle  them- 
selves unawares  to  the  Poet  with  those  "  intellectual  modula- 
tions ?"  And  had  he  not  once  loved  Jean  Armour  to  distraction? 
His  first  experiences  of  the  passion  of  love,  in  its  utmost  sweet- 
ness and  bitterness,  had  been  for  her  sake,  and  the  memories  of 
those  years  came  often  of  themselves  unbidden  into  the  very 
heart  of  his  songs  when  his  fancy  was  for  the  hour  enamored  of 
other  beauties. 

With  a  versatility,  not  compatible  perhaps  with  a  capacity  of 
profoundest  emotion,  but  in  his  case  with  extreme  tenderness, 
he  could  instantly  assume,  and  often  on  the  slightest  apparent 
impulse,  some  imagined  character  as  completely  as  if  it  were 
his  own,  and  realize  its  conditions.  Or  he  could  imagine  him- 
self out  of  all  the  circumstances  by  which  his  individual  life 
was  environed,  and  to  all  the  emotions  arising  from  that  trans- 
migration, give  utterance  as  lively  as  tiie  language  inspired  by 
his  communion  with  his  own  familiar  world.  Even  when  lie 
knew  he  was  dying,  he  looked  in  Jessie  Lewars'  face,  \\ii(im 
he  loved  as  a  father  loves  his  daughter,  and  that  he  might  re- 

10* 


112  THE  GENIUS  AND 


ward  her  filial  tenderness  for  him  who  was  fast  wearing  away, 
by  an  immortal  song,  in  his  affection  for  her  he  feigned  a  hope- 
less passion,  and  imagined  himself  the  victim  of  despair ; — 

•'  Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy  ! 
Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Although  even  hope  is  denied  ; 
'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  this  world  beside  !" 

It  was  said  by  one  who  during  a  long  life  kept  saying  weighty 
things — old  Hobbes — that  "  in  great  differences  of  persons,  the 
greater  have  often  fallen  in  love  with  the  meaner:  but  not  con- 
trary." What  Gilbert  tells  us  of  his  brother  might  seem  to 
corroborate  that  dictum — "  His  love  rarely  settled  on  persons 
who  were  higher  than  himself,  or  who  had  more  consequence  in 
life."  This,  however,  could  only  apply  to  the  early  part  of  his 
life.  Then  he  had  few  opportunities  of  fixing  his  affections  on 
persons  above  him  ;  and  if  he  had  had,  their  first  risings  would 
have  been  suppressed  by  bis  pride.  But  his  after  destination  so 
far  levelled  the  inequality  that  it  was  not  unnatural  to  address 
his  devotion  to  ladies  of  high  degree.  He  then  felt  that  he  could 
command  their  benevolence,  if  not  inspire  their  love  ;  and  elated 
by  that  consciousness,  he  feared  not  to  use  towards  them  the 
language  of  love,  of  unbounded  passion.  He  believed,  and  he 
was  not  deceived  in  the  belief,  that  he  could  exalt  them  in  their 
own  esteem,  by  hanging  round  their  proud  necks  the  ornaments 
of  his  oenius.  Therefore,  sometimes,  lie  seemed  to  turn  himself 
away  disdainfully  from  sunburnt  bosoms  in  homespun  covering, 
to  pay  his  vows  and  adorations  to  the  Queens  of  Beauty.  The 
devoirs  of  a  poet,  whose  genius  was  at  their  service,  have  been 
acceptable  to  many  a  high-born  dame  and  damsel,  as  the  sub- 
mission of  a  conqueror.  Innate  sujieriority  made  him,  in  these 
hours,  ai)solutply  unable  to  comprehend  the  spirit  of  society  as 
produced  l)y  artificial  distinctions,  and  at  all  times  unwilling  to 
suljndt  to  it  or  pay  it  homage.  "  Perfection  whispend  pa.'>sing 
by,  B(  hold  the  Lass  o'  Ballochmyle  !"  and  Burns,  too  pr^.ud  to 
change  himself  into  a  lord  or  squire,  imagined  whai  liappiness 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  lis 


might  have  been  his  if  all  those  charms  had  budded  and  blown 
witliin  a  cottage  like  "  a  rose-tree  in  full  bearing." 

"  0,  had  she  been  a  country  maid, 
And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Tho'  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  on  Scotland's  plain  I 
Thro'  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil ; 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle." 

He  speaks  less  passionately  of  the  charms  of  "  bonnie  Lesley 
as  she  gaed  owre  the  border,"  for  they  had  not  taken  him  by 
surprise ;  he  was  prepared  to  behold  a  queen,  and  with  his  own 
hands  he  placed  upon  her  head  the  crown. 

"  To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 

And  love  but  her  for  ever  ; 
For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is. 
And  never  made  anither. 

"  Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  : 
Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee." 

Nay,  evil  spirits  look  in  her  face  and  almost  become  cjood — 
while  angels  love  her  for  her  likeness  to  themselves,  and  happy 
she  must  be  on  earth  in  the  eye  of  heaven.  We  know  not  much 
about  the  "Lovely  Davis;"  but  in  his  stanzas  she  is  the  very 
Sovereiun  of  Nature. 


a 


"  Eich  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears. 

Like  Pho.'bus  in  the  morning. 
When  past  the  shower,  and  every  flower. 

The  garden  is  adorning. 
As  the  wretch  looks  o'er  Siberia's  shore. 

When  winter-bound  the  wave  is  ; 
Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  must  part 

Frae  charming,  lovely  Davis. 


114  THE  GENIUS  AXD 


"  Her  smile's  a  gift  frae  boon  the  lift 

That  makes  us  mair  than  princes, 
A  scepter'd  hand,  a  king's  command. 

Is  in  her  parting  glances. 
The  man  in  arms  'gainst  female  charms. 

Even  he  her  willing  slave  is  ; 
He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 

Of  conquering,  lovely  Davis." 

The  loveliest  of  one  of  the  loveliest  families  in  Scotland  he 
changed  into  a  lowly  lassie,  aye  "  working  her  mammie's  work," 
and  her  lover  into  Young  Robie — "  who  gaed  wi '  Jeanie  to  the 
tryste,  and  danced  wi '  Jeanie  on  the  down."  In  imagination 
he  is  still  himself  the  happy  man — his  loves  are  short  and  rap- 
turous as  his  lyrics — and  while  liis  constancy  may  be  complained 
of,  it  is  impossible  to  help  admiring  the  richness  of  his  genius 
that  keeps  for  ever  bringing  fresh  tribute  to  her  whom  he  hap- 
pens to  adore. 

"  Her  voice  is  the  voice  of  the  morning. 

That  wakes  through  the  green-spreading  grove 
When  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  mountains, 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love." 

That  was  the  voice  of  one  altogether  lovely — a  lady  elegant  and 
accomplished — and  adorning  a  higher  condition  than  his  own  ; 
but  though  finer  lines  were  never  written,  they  are  not  finer 
than  these  four  inspired  by  the  passing  by  of  a  young  woman, 
on  the  High  Street  of  Dumfries,  with  iier  shoes  and  stockings  in 
her  hand,  and  her  petticoats  frugally  yet  liberally  kilted  to  her 
knee. 

"  Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare, 

Comes  trinkling  down  her  swan-white  neck. 
And  her  two  eyes,  like  stars  in  skies. 
Would  keep  a  sinking  ship  frae  wreck." 

It  may  be  thought  that  such  poetry  is  too  high  for  the  people 
— the  common  pcc)j)le — "beyond  the  reaches  of  their  souls;" 
but  Burns  knew  better — and  he  knew  that  he  who  would  be 
their  poet  must  put  forth  all  his  powers.     There  is  not  a  single 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  •      ll5 

thougl)t,  feeling,  or  image  in  all  he  ever  wrote,  that  has  not  been 
comprehended  in  its  full  force  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
in  the  very  humblest  condition.  They  could  not  of  themselves 
liave  conceived  them — nor  given  utterance  to  anything  resem- 
bling them  to  our  ears.  How  dull  of  apprehension  !  how  unlike 
gods  !  But  let  them  be  spoken  to,  and  they  hear.  Their  hearts 
delighted  with  a  strange  sweet  music  »±ich. by  recognition  they 
understand,  are  not  satisfied  with  listening,  but  yearn  to  respond  ; 
ancrtlie  whole  land  that  for  many  years  had  seemed,  but  was  not, 
silent,  in  a  few  months  is  overflowing  with  songs  that  had  issued 
from  highest  genius  it  is  true,  but  from  the  same  source  that  is 
daily  welling  out  its  waters  in  every  human  breast.  Xlie_songs 
tliat  establish  themselves  among  a  people  must  indeed  be  simple 
— but  the  simplest  feelings  are  the  deepest,  and  once  that  they 
have  received  adequate  expression,  then  they  die  not — but  live 
for  ever. 

Many  of  his  Love-songs  are,  as  they  ought  to  be,  untinged 
witli  earthly  desire,  and  some  of  these  are^bout  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  any — as 

"  Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart. 
Wilt  thou  let  nie  cheer  thee  ! 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul. 
That's  the  love  I  bear  thee ! 

I  swear  and  vow,  that  only  thou 
Shalt  ever  be  my  dearie. 

"  Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 
Say  na  tliou'lt  refuse  me  : 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 
Lassie,  lot  me  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me." 

Nothing  can  be  more  exquisitely  tender — passionless  from  the 
excess  of  passion — .pure  from  very  despair — love  yet  hopes  for 
love's  contc'ssion,  though  it  feels  it  can  be  but  a  word  of  pity  to 
sweeten  death. 

In  the  most  exquisite  of  his  Songs,  he  connects  and  blends  the 


116  THE  GENIUS  AND 


tenderest  and  most  passionate  emotions  with  all  appearances — 
animate  and  inanimate  ;  in  them  all — and  in  some  by  a  single 
touch — we  are  made  to  feel  that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  nature. 
A  bird  glints  by,  and  we  know  we  are  in  the  woods — a  primrose 
grows  up,  and  we  are  among  the  braes — the  mere  name  of  a 
stream  brings  its  banks  before  us — or  two  or  three  words  leave 
us  our  own  choice  of  many  waters. 

"  Far  dearer  to  me  the  lone  glen  of  g;rcen  bracken. 
Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow  broom." 

It  has  been  thought  that  the  eyes  of  "  the  laboring  poor"  are 
not  very  sensible — nay,  that  they  are  insensible  to  scenery — and 
that  the  pleasures  thence  derived  are  confined  to  persons  of  cul- 
tivated taste.  True,  that  the  country  girl,  as  she  "  lifts  her 
leglin,  and  hies  her  away,"  is  thinking  more  of  her  lover's  face 
and  figure — whom  she  hopes  to  meet  in  the  evening — than  of 
the  trysting  tree,  or  of  the  holm  where  the  grey  hawthorn  has 
been  standing  for  hundreds  of  years.  Yet  she  knows  right  well 
that  they  are  beautiful  ;  and  she  feels  their  beauty  in  the  old 
song  she  is  singing  to  herself,  tliat  at  dead  of  winter  recalls  the 
spring  time  and  all  the  loveliness  of  the  season  of  leaves.  The 
people  know  little  about  painting — how  should  they  ?  for  unac- 
quainted with  the  laws  of  perspective,  they  cannot  see  the  land- 
scape-picture on  which  instructed  eyes  gaze  till  the  imagination 
beholds  a  paradise.  But  the  landscapes  themselves  they  do  see 
— and  they  love  to  look  on  them.  The  ploughman  does  so,  as 
he  "  homeward  plods  his  weary  way  ;"  the  reaper  as  he  looks 
at  what  Burns  calls  his  own  light — "the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 
mild  chequering  through  the  trees."  If  it  were  not  so,  why 
should  they  call  it  "  Bonnie  Scotland  " — why  should  they  call 
him  "  Sweet  Roljbie  Burns  ?  " 

Irj  his  Songs  they  think  of  the  flowers  as  alive,  and  with 
hearts:  "  IIow  blest  the  flowers  that  round  thee  bloom!"  In 
his  Songs,  the  birds  they  hear  singing  in  common  hours  with 
common  pleasure,  or  give  them  not  a  thought,  without  losing  their 
own  nature  partake  of  theirs,  and  shun,  share,  or  mock  human 
passion.     He  is  at  once  the  most  accurate  and  the  most  poetical 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  li: 


of  ornithologists.  By  a  felicitous  epithet  he  characterizes  each 
tribe  according  to  song,  plumage,  habits,  or  haunts;  often  intro- 
duces them  for  the  sake  of  their  own  happy  selves;  oftener  as 
responsive  to  ours,  in  the  expression  of  their  own  joys  and  griefs. 

"  Oh,  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay. 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray; 
A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay — 
Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

"  Again,  again,  that  tender  part. 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art; 
For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 
Wlia  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

"  Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 
Oh,  nocbt  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 
Sic  notes  o'  love  could  wauken. 

"  Thou  tells  o'  never  ending  care  : 
0'  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair  ; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair, 
Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  !" 

Who  was  Jenny  Cruikshank  ?  Only  child  "of  my  worthy 
friend,  Mr.  William  Cruikshank  of  the  High  School,  Edin- 
burgh." Where  did  she  live  ?  On  a  floor  at  the  top  of  a  com- 
mon stair,  now  marked  No.  30,  in  James'  Square.  Burns  lived 
for  some  time  with  her  father — his  room  being  one  which  has  a 
window  looking  out  from  the  gable  of  the  house  upon  the  green 
behind  the  Register  Office.  There  was  little  on  that  green  to 
look  at — perhaps  "a  washing"  laid  out  to  dry.  But  the  poet 
saw  a  vision — and  many  a  maiden  now  often  sees  it  too — whose 
face  may  be  of  the  coarsest,  and  her  hair  not  of  the  finest — but 
who  in  spite  of  all  that,  strange  to  say,  has  an  imagination  and 
a  heart. 

"  A  rose-bud  by  my  early  walk 
Adown  a  corn-enclosed  bawk, 
Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk 

All  on  a  dewy  morning; 


lis  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fled, 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread  ; 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 

"Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A  little  linnet  fondly  prest ; 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 

Sae  early  in  the  morning. 
The  morn  shall  see  her  tender  brood 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood, 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd. 

Awake  the  early  morning. 

"  So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jeany  fair  ! 
On  trembling  string,  or  vocal  air, 
Shall  sweetly  j)ay  the  tender  care. 

That  tends  thy  early  morning. 
So  thou,  sweet  rosebud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray, 

That  watch'd  thy  early  morning." 

Indeed,  in  all  his  poeiry,  what  an  overflowing  of  tenderness, 
pity,  and  affection  towards  all  living  creatures  that  inhabit  the 
earth,  the  water,  and  the  air  !  Of  all  men  that  ever  lived, 
Burns  was  the  least  of  a  sentimentalist ;  he  was  your  true  Man 
of  Feelinw.  He  did  not  preach  to  Christian  people  the  duty  of 
humanity  to  animals;  he  spoke  of  them  in  winning  words  warm 
from  a  manliest  breast,  as  his  fellow-creatures,  and  made  us  feel 
what  we  owe.  What  child  could  well  be  cruel  to  a  helpless 
animal  who  had  read   "  The  Death  and   Dying  Words  of  Poor 

Maillie" or  "The  Twa  Dogs?"     "The  Auld  Farmer's  New- 

year's-day  Address  to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie"  has — we  know — 
humanized  the  heart  of  a  Gilmerton  carter.  "  Not  a  mouse 
stirriiiff,"  are  gentle  words  at  that  hour  from  Shakspeare — when 
thinkint^  of  the  ghost  of  a  king;  and  he  would  iiave  loved  bro- 
iher  Burns  for  saying — "  What  makes  thee  startle,  at  me  thy 
poor  earth-born  companion  and  fellow  mortal!"  Safe-housed  at 
fall  of  a  stormy  winter  night,  of  whom  does  the  poet  think,  along 
with  the  unfortunate,  the  erring,  and  the  guilty  of  his  own  race  I 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  iifl 


"  Lisfning  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thoutcht  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

0'  winter  war. 
An'  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scar. 

"  Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 

An'  close  thy  e'e  ?" 

The  poet  loved  the  sportsman  ;  but  lamenting  in  fancy  "  Tom 
Samson's  Deatli " — he  could  not  help  thinking,  that  "on  his 
nnouldering  breast,  some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest."  When 
at  Kirkoswald  studying  trigonometry,  plane  and  spherical,  he 
sometimes  associated  with  smugglers,  but  never  with  poachers. 
You  cannot  figure  to  yourself  young  Robert  Burns  stealing 
stoopingly  along  under  cover  of  a  hedge,  with  a  long  gun  and  a 
lurcher,  to  get  a  shot  at  a  hare  sitting,  and  perhaps  washing  her 
face  with  her  paws.  No  tramper  ever  "  coft  fur"  at  Mossgiel 
or  Ellisland.  He  could  have  joined,  had  he  liked,  in  the  pas- 
sionate ardor  of  the  rod  and  the  gun  the  net  and  the  leister;  hut 
he  liked  rather  to  tnink  of  all  those  creatures  alive  and  well, 
''in  their  native  element."  In  his  love-sontj  to  "the  channinir 
filette  who  overset  his  trigonometry,"  and  incapacitated  him  for 
the  taking  of  the  sun's  altitude,  he  says  to  her,  on  proposing  to 
take  a  walk — 

"  Now  westlin  winds,  and  slaught'ring  guns, 
Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather  ; 
The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 
Amang  the  blooming  hcatlier. 

"  The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells  ; 
The  plover  loves  the  mountains  ; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells ; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains  : 
Thro'  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 
The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 
11 


120  THE  GENIUS  AND 


The  hazel  bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush, 
The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

"  Thus  ev'ry  kind  their  pleasure  find 

The  savage  and  the  tender; 
Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine  ; 

Some  solitary  wander : 
Avaunt,  away  !  the  cruel  sway, 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion  ; 
The  sportsman's  joy,  the  muid'ringcry. 

The  flutt'ring,  gory  pinion  !" 

Bruar  Water,  in  his  Hun)ble  Petition  to  the  Noble  Duke  of 
Athole,  prays  that  liis  banks  maybe  made  sylvan,  that  sheplierd, 
lover,  and  bard  may  enjoy  the  shades  j  but  chiefly  for  sake  of 
the  inferior  creatures. 

"  Delighted  doubly  then,  my  Lord, 
You'll  wander  on  my  banks. 
And  listen  many  a  gratefu'  bird 
Return  you  tuncfu'  thanks." 

The  sober  laverock — the  gowdspink  gay — the  strong  blackbird — 
the  clear  lintwhite — the  mavis  mild  and  mellow — they  will  all 
sing  "  God  bless  the  Duke."  And  one  mute  creature  will  be  more 
thankful  than  all  the  rest — "  coward  maukin  sleep  secure,  low  in 
her  grassy  form."  You  know  that  he  threatened  to  throw  Jem 
Thomson,  a  farmer's  son  near  Ellisland,  into  the  Nith,  for  shoot- 
ing at  a  hare — and  in  several  of  his  morning  landscapes  a  hare 
is  hirpling  by.  What  human  and  poetical  sympathy  is  there  in 
his  address  to  the  startled  wild  fowl  on  Loch  Turit !  He  speaks 
of  "parent,  filial,  kindred  ties;"  and  in  the  closing  lines  who 
does  not  feel  that  it  is  Burns  that  speaks  ? 

"  Or,  if  man's  superior  might. 
Dare  invade  your  native  right, 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne 
Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave. 
Scorn,  at  least,  to  be  his  slave." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  121 

Whatever  be  his  mood,  grav^  or  gladsome,  mirthful  or  melan- 
choly— or  when  sorrow  smiles  back  to  joy,  or  care  joins  hands 
with  folly — he  has  always  a  liiought  to  give  to  them  who  many 
think  have  no  thought,  but  who  all  seemed  to  him, /rom  highest 
to  lowest  in  that  scale  of  being,  to  possess  each  its  appropriate 
degree  of  intelligence  and  love.  In  the  "  Sonnet  written  on  his 
birth-day,  January  25lh,  1793,  on  hearing  a  thrush  sing  in  a 
morning-walk,"  it  is  truly  affecting  to  hear  how  he  connects,  on 
the  sudden,  his  own  condition  with  all  its  cares  and  an.xieties, 
with  that  of  the  cheerful  bird  upon  tiie  leafless  bough — 

"  Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care, 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestows,  that  mite  with  thee  I'll  share." 

We  had  intended  to  speak  only  of  his  Songs ;  and  to  them  we 
return  for  a  few  minutes  more,  askirig_yQu  to  nctice  how  cheer- 
ing such  of  them  as  deal  gladsomely  with  the  concerns  of  this 
world  must  be  to  the  hearts  of  them  who  of  their  own  accord  sinsr 
them  to  themselves,  at  easier  work,  or  intervals  of  labor,  or  at 
gloaming  when  the  day's  darg  is  done.  All  partings  are  not  sad — 
most  are  the  reverse  ;  lovers  do  not  fear  that  they  shall  surely 
die  the  day  after  they  have  kissed  farewell ;  on  the  contrary  they 
trust,  with  the  blessing  of  Qod,  to  be  married  at  the  term. 

•'  Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss. 
O'er  the  mountains  he  is  gane ; 
And  with  him  is  a'  my  bliss, 

Naught  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

"  Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain  ! 
Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw, 
Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain. 

"  When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O'er  the  day's  fair,  gladsome  e'e, 
Sound  and  s:ift-ly  may  he  sleep. 
Sweetly  blythe  his  vvaukcning  be  \ 

"  He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 
Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name  ; 


i22  THE  GENIUS  AND 


For  where'er  he  distant  roves. 
Jockey's  heart  is  still  at  hame." 

There  is  no  great  matter  or  merit,  some  one  may  say,  in  such 
lines  as  these — nor  is  there  ;  but  they  express  sweetly  enough 
some  natural  sentiments,  and  what  more  would  you  have  in  a 
song  ?  You  have  had  far  more  in  some  songs  to  which  we  have 
given  the  go-by ;  but  we  are  speaking  now  of  the  class  of  the 
simply  pleasant;  and  on  us  their  effect  is  like  that  of  a  gentle 
light  falling  on  a  pensive  place,  when  there  are  no  absolute  clouds 
in  the  sky,  and  no  sun  visible  either,  but  when  that  soft  effusion, 
we  know  not  whence,  makes  the  whole  day  that  had  been  some- 
what sad,  serene,  and  reminds  us  that  it  is  summer.  Believing 
you  feel  as  we  do,  we  do  not  fear  to  displease  you  by  quoting 
"  The  Tither  Morn." 

"The  tither  morn,  when  I  forlorn, 

Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 
I  didna  trow,  I'd  see  my  jo, 

Beside  me,  gain  the  gloaming. 
But  he  sae  trig,  lap  o'er  the  rig, 

And  dautingly  did  cheer  me, 
When  I,  what  reck,  did  least  expec'. 

To  see  my  lad  so  near  me. 

"  His  bonnet  he,  a  thought  ajee, 

Cocked  sprush  when  first  he  clasp'd  me ; 
And  I,  I  wat,  wi'  fairness  grat. 

While  in  his  grips  he  pressed  me. 
Deil  take  the  war  !  I  late  and  air, 

Hae  wished  syne  Jock  departed; 
But  now  as  glad  I'm  wi'  my  lad. 

As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

*'  I'm  aft  at  e'en  wi'  dancing  keen, 

When  a'  were  blithe  and  merry, 
I  car'd  na  by,  sae  sad  was  I, 

In  absence  o'  my  dearie. 
But  praise  be  blest,  my  mind's  at  rest, 

I'm  happy  wi'  my  Johnny: 
At  kirk  and  fair,  I'll  aye  be  there. 

And  be  as  canty's  ony." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  r23 


We  believe  that  the  most  beautiful  of  his  Songs  are  dearest  to 
the  people,  and  these  are  the  passionate  and  the  pathetic;  but 
tliere  are  some  connected  in  one  way  or  other  vvjtli  the  tender 
passion,  great  favorites  too,  from  the  light  and  lively,  up  to  the 
humorous  and  comic — yet  among  the  broadest  of  that  class  there 
is  seldom  any  coarseness? — indecency  never — vulgar  you  may 
call  some  of  them,  if  you  please  ;  they  were  not  intended  to  be 
gentPcL  Flirts  and  coquettes  of  both  sexes  are  of  every  rank  ; 
in  humble  life  the  saucy  and  scornful  toss  their  heads  full  liigh, 
or  "go  by  like  stoure ;"  "for  sake  o'  gowd  she  left  me"  is  a 
complaint  heard  in  all  circles  ;  "  although  the  night  be  neer  sae 
wet,  and  he  be  neer  sae  weary  O,"  a  gentleman  of  a  certain  age 
will  make  himself  ridiculous  by  dropping  on  the  knees  of  his 
corduroy  breeches;  Auntie  would  fain  become  a  mother,  and  in 
order  thereunto  a  wife,  and  waylays  a  hobbletehoy  ;  daughters 
the  most  filial  think  nothing  of  breaking  their  mothers'  hearts  as 
their  grandmothers'  were  broken  before  them  ;  innocents,  with 
no  other  teaching  but  that  of  nature,  in  the  conduct  of  intrigues 
in  which  verily  there  is  neither  shame  nor  sorrow,  become  system- 
atic and  consummate  hypocrites,  not  worthy  to  live — single; 
despairing  swains  are  saved  from  suicide  by  peals  of  laughter 
from  those  for  whom  they  fain  would  die,  and  so  get  noosed  ; — 
and  surely  here  is  a  field — indicated  and  no  more — wide  enough 
for  the  Scottish  Comic  Muse,  and  would  you  know  how  produc- 
tive to  the  hand  of  genius  you  have  but  to  read  Burns. 

In  one  of  his  letters  he  says,  "  If_I_csiiIdv  and  I  believe  I  do 
itas  far ja.s_  Lear),  I  would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes." 
His  nature  was  indeed  humane  ;  and  the  tendernesses  and  kind- 
linesses apparent  in  every  page  of  his  poetry,  and  most  of  all  in 
his  Songs — cannot  but  have  a  humanizing  influence  on  all  those 
classes  exposed  by  the  necessities  of  their  condition  to  many 
causes  for  ever  at  work  to  harden  or  shut  up  the  heart.  Burns 
does  not  keep  continually  holding  up  to  them  the  evils  of  their 
lot,  continually  calling  on  them  to  endure  or  to  redress  ;  but 
while  he  stands  up  for  his  Order,  its  virtues,  and  Us  rights,  and 
has  bolts  to  hurl  at  the  oppressor,  his  delight  is  to  inspire  con- 
tentment. In  that  solemn — "  Dirge," — a  spiritual  being,  suddenly 
spied  in  the  gloom,  seems  an  Apparition,  made  sage  by  sutl'erings 

11* 


124  THE  GENIUS  AND 


in  the  flesh,  sent  to  instruct  us  and  all  who  breathe  that  "  Man 
was  made  to  mourn." 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves. 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ' 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'er-labor'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn." 

But  we  shall  suppose  that  "  brother  of  the  earth  "  rotten,  and 
forgotten  by  the  "  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,"  who 
work  without  leave  from  worms.  At  his  work  we  think  we  hear 
a  stalwart  tiller  of  the  soil  humming  what  must  be  a  verse  of 
IJurns. 

"  Is  there  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that .' 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  grey,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 

"  Then  let  us  pray,  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that,' 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  tfiat, 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that." 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  125 


A  spirit  of  Independence  reigne<]  alike  in  the  Genius  and  the 
Character  of  Burns.  And  what  is  it  but  a  strong  sense  of  what 
is  due  to  Wortii,  apart  altogetlier  from  the  distinctions  of  society 
— the  vindication  of  that  Worth  br-ing  what  he  ftlt  to  be  the  most 
honored  call  upon  himself  in  life  ?  That  sense  once  violated  is 
destroyed,  and  therefore  he  guarded  it  as  a  sacred  thing — -only 
lesg  sacred  than  Conscience.  Yet  it  belongs  to  Conscience, 
and  is. the  prerogative  of  Man  as  Man.  Sometimes  it  may  seem 
as  if  he  watched  it  with  jealousy,  and  in  jealousy  there  is  always 
weakness,  because,  there  is  fear.  But  it  was  not  ^o  ;  he  felt  as- 
sured that  his  footing  was  firm  and  that  his  hack  wSs  on  a  rock. 
No  blast  could  blow,  no  air  could  beguile  him  from  the  position 
he  had  taken  up  with  his  whole  soul  in  "  its  pride  of  place." 
His  words  were  justified  by  his  actions,  and  his  actions  truly 
told  his  thoughts  ;  his  were  a  bold  heart,  a  bold  hand,  and  a  bold 
tongue,  for  in  the  nobility  of  his  nature  he  knew  that  though  born 
and  bred  in  a  hovel,  he  was  the  equal  of  the  highest  in  the  land  ;  as 
he  was — and  no  more — of  tlie  lowest,  so  that  they  too  were  men. 
For  hear  him  speak — "  VVl>at  signify  the  silly,  idle  gew-gaws 
of  wealth,  or  the  ideal  trumpery  of  greatness  !  When  fellow, 
partakers  of  the  same  nature  fear  the  same  God,  have  the  same 
benevolence  of  heart,  the  same  nobleness  of  soul,  the  same  de- 
testation at  everything  dishonest,  and  the  same  scorn  at  every- 
thing unworthy — if  they  are  not  in  the  dependence  of  absolute 
beggary,  in  the  name  of  common  sense  are  they  not  equals  ? 
And  if  the  bias,  the  instinctive  bias  of  their  souls  were  the  same 
way,  why  may  they  not  be  friends  ?  He  was  indeed  privileged 
to  write  that  "Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Independence." 

"  Thou  of  an  independent  mind. 

With  sold  resolved,  witli  soul  resifijned  ; 

Prepared  Power's  jjroudcst  frown  to  brave, 

Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave  ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere. 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear. 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here." 

Scotland's  adventurous  sons  are  now  as  proud  of  this  moral  (ca 
tare  of  his  poetry  as  of  all  the  pictures  it  contains  of  their  native 


126  THE   GENIUS  AND 


country.  Bound  up  in  one  volume  it  is  the  Manual  of  Inde- 
pendence. Were  they  not  possessed  of  the  same  spirit,  they 
would  be  ashamed  to  open  it ;  but  what  they  wear  they  win, 
what  they  eat  they  earn,  and  if  frugal  they  be — and  that  is  the 
right  word — it  is  that  on  their  return  they  may  build  a  house  on 
the  site  of  tiieir  father's  hut,  and  proud  to  remember  that  he  was 
poor,  live  so  as  to  deserve  the  blessings  of  the  children  of  them 
w  ho  walked  with  him  to  daily  labor  on  what  was  then  no  better 
than  a  wilderness,  but  has  now  been  made  to  blossom  like  the 
rose.  Ebenezer  Elliot  is  no  flatterer — and  he  said  to  a  hundred 
and  twenty  Scotsmen  in  Sheffield  met  to  celebrate  the  birth-day 
of  Burns — 

"  Stern  Mother  of  the  deathless  dead  ! 

Where  stands  a  Scot,  a  freeman  stands ; 
Self-stayed,  if  poor — self-clothed — self-fed; 
Mind-mighty  in  all  lands. 

"  No  wicked  plunder  need  thy  sons. 

To  save  the  wretch  whom  mercy  spurns. 
No  classic  lore  tliy  little  ones, 
Who  find  a  Bard  in  Burns. 

"  Their  path  tho'  dark,  they  may  not  miss; 
Secure  they  tread  on  danger's  brink  ; 
They  say  '  this  shall  be  '  and  it  is  : 
For  ere  they  act,  they  think." 

There  are,  it  is  true,  some  passages  in  his  poetry,  and  more 
in  his  letters,  in  which  this  Spirit  of  Independence  partakes  too 
much  of  pride,  and  expresses  itself  in  anger  and  scorn.  These, 
however,  were  but  passing  moods,  and  he  did  not  love  to  cherish 
them  ;  no  great  blame  had  they  been  more  frequent  and  perma- 
nent— for  his  noble  nature  was  exposed  to  many  causes  of  such 
irritalion,  but  it  triun)phed  over  them  all.  A  few  indignant 
flashes  broke  out  against  the  littleness  of  the  great  ;  but  nothing 
so  paltry  as  personal  pique  inspired  him  with  feelings  of  hostility 
touards  the  hi"hest  orders.  His  was  an  imajiination  that  clothed 
high  rank  with  that  rlignity  which  some  of  the  degenerate  de- 
scendants of  old  houses  had  forgotten  ;  and  whenever  true 
noblemen  "  reverenced  the  lyre  "  and  grasped  the  hand  of  the 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  127 


peasant  who  had  received  it  from  nature  as  his  patrimony,  Burns 
felt  it  to  be  nowise  inconsistent  with  the  stubbornest  indepen- 
dence that  ever,  supported  a  son  of  the  soil  in  his  struggles  with 
necessity,  reverently  to  dolF  his  bonnet,  and  bow  his  head  in 
their  presence  with  proud  humility.  Jcfirey  did  himself  honor 
by  acknowledging  that  he  had  been  at  first  misled  by  occasional 
splenetic  passages,  in  his  estimation  of  Burns's  character,  and  by 
afterwards  joining,  in  eloquent  terms,  in  the  praise  bestowed  by 
other  kindred  spirits  on  the  dignity  of  its  independence.  "  It  is 
observed,"  says  Campbell  with  his  usual  felicity,  "  that  he  boasts 
too  much  of  his  independence  ;  but  in  reality  this  boast  is  neither 
frequent  nor  obtrusive  ;  and  it  is  in  itself  the  expression  of  a 
noble  and  laudable  feeling.  So  far  from  calling  up  disagreeable 
recollections  of  rusticity,  his  sentiments  triumph,  by  their  natu- 
ral energy,  over  those  false  and  artificial  distinctions  which  the 
mind  is  but  too  apt  to  form  in  allotting  its  sympathies  to  the  sen- 
sibilities of  the  rich  and  poor.  He  carries  us  into  the  humble 
scenes  of  life,  not  to  make  us  dole  out  our  tribute  of  charitable 
compassion  to  paupers  and  cottagers,  but  to  make  us  feel  with 
them  on  equal  terms,  to  make  us  enter  into  their  passions  and 
interests,  and  share  our  hearts  with  them  as  brothers  and  sisters 
of  the  human  species." 

In  nothing  else  is  the  sincerity  of  his  soul  more  apparent  than 
in  his  Friendship.  All  who  had  ever  been  kind  to  him  he  loved 
till  the  last.  It  mattered  not  to  him  what  was  their  rank  or  con- 
dition— he  returned,  and  more  than  returned  their  afTcction — he 
was,  with  regard  to  such  lies,  indeed  of  the  family  of  the  faith- 
ful. The  consciousness  of  his  infinite  superiority  to  the  common 
race  of  men,  and  of  his  own  fame  and  glory  as  a  Poet,  never  for 
a  moment  made  him  forget  the  humble  companions  of  his  obscure 
life,  or  regard  with  a  haughty  eye  any  face  that  had  ever  worn 
towards  him  an  expression  of  benevolence,  'i'he  Smiths,  the 
Muirs,  tlie  Browns,  and  the  Parkers,  were  to  him  as  the  Aikens, 
the  Ballantynes,  the  Hamiltons,  the  Cunninghams,  and  the  Ains- 
lies — these  as  the  Stewarts,  the  Gregorys,  the  Blairs  and  the 
Mackenzies — these  again  as  the  Grahams  and  the  Erskines — 
and  these  as  the  Daers,  the  Glencairns,  and  the  other  men  of 
rank  who  were  kind  to  him — all  were  his  friends — his  benefac- 


128  THE  GENIUS  AND 


tors.  His  heart  expanded  towards  them  all,  and  throbbed  with 
gratitude.  His  eldest  son — and  he  has  much  of  his  father's  in- 
tellectual power — bears  his  own  Christian  name — t!ie  others  are 
James  Ghncairn,  and  William  Nicol — so  called  respectively 
after  a  nobleman  to  whom  he  thought  he  owed  all — and  a  school- 
master to  whom  he  owed  nothing — yet  equally  entitled  to  bestow 
— or  receive  that  honor. 

There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  his  Second  Common  Place 
Book,  showing  how  deeply  he  felt,  and  how  truly  he  valued,  the 
patronage  wiiich  the  worthy  alone  can  bestow.  "  What  pleasure 
is  in  the  power  of  the  fortunate  and  happy,  by  their  notice  and 
patronage,  to  brighten  the  countenance  and  glad  the  heart  of 
depressed  worth  !  I  am  not  so  angry  with  mankind  for  their 
'deaf  economy  of  the  purse.  The  goods  of  this  world  cannot  be 
divided  without  being  lessened  ;  but  why  bs  a  niggard  of  that 
which  bestows  bliss  on  a  fellow  creature,  yet  takes  nothing  from 
our  own  means  of  enjoyment  ? .  Why  wrap  ourselves  in  the 
cloak  of  our  own  better  fortune,  and  turn  away  our  eyes  lest 
the  wants  and  cares  of  our  brother  mortals  should  disturb  the 
selfish  apathy  of  our  souls  ?"  What  was  the  amount  of  all  the 
kindness  shown  him  by  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  ?  That  excellent 
nobleman  at  once  saw  that  he  was  a  great  genius, — gave  him 
the  hand  of  friendship — and  in  conjunction  with  Sir  John  White- 
ford  cot  the  members  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt  to  subscribe  for 
guinea  instead  of  six  shilling  copies  of  his  volume.  That  was 
all — and  it  was  well.  For  that  Burns  was  as  grateful  as  for 
the  preservation  of  life. 

"  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen ; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  hath  been ; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smik-s  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee  ; 
But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me." 

He  went  into  mourning  on  the  death  of  his  benefactor,  and 
desired  to  know  where  he  was  to  be  buried,  that  he  might  attend 
the  funeral,  and  drop  a  tear  into  his  grave. 

The   "  Lament  for  Glencairn  "   is  one  of  the  finest  of  Ele- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  129 

gies.  We  cannot  agree  with  those  critics — some  of  them  of 
deserved  reputation — who  have  objected  to  the  form  in  which  the 
poet  chose  to  give  expression  to  his  grief.  Imagination,  touched 
by  human  sorrow,  loves  to  idealize ;  because  thereby  it  purifu's, 
elevates,  and  ennobles  realities,  without  impairing  the  pathos 
belonging  to  them  in  nature.  Many  great  poets — nor  do  we  fear 
now  to  mention  Milton  among  the  number — have  in  such  strains 
celebrated  the  beloved  dead.  They  have  gone  out,  along  witli 
the  object  of  their  desire,  from  the  real  living  world  in  which 
they  had  b^en  united,  and  shadowed  forth  in  imagery  that  bears 
a  high  similitude  to  it,  all  that  was  most  spiritual  in  the  com- 
munion now  broken  in  upon  by  the  mystery  of  death.  So  it  is 
in  the  Lycidas — and  so  it  is  in  this  "Lament."  Burns  imagines 
an  aaed  Bard  ffivins  vent  to  his  sorrow  for  his  noble  master's 
untimely  death,,  among  the  "  fading  yellow  woods,  that  wav'd 
o'er  Lugar's  winding  stream."  That  name  at  once  awakens  in 
US  the  thought  of  his  own  dawning  genius;  and  though  his  head 
was  yet  dark  as  the  raven's  wing,  and  "  the  locks  were  bleached 
white  with  time  "  of  the  Apparition  evoked  with  his  wailing  harp 
among  the  "  winds  lamenting  thro'  the  caves,"  yet  we  feel  on 
the  instant  that  the  imaginary  mourner  is  one  and  the  same 
with  the  real — that  the  old  and  the  young  are  inspired  with  the 
same  passion,  and  have  but  one  heart.  We  are  taken  out  of 
the  present  time,  and  placed  in  one  far  remote — yet  by  such  re- 
moval the  personality  of  the  poet,  so  far  from  being  weakened, 
is  enveloped  in  a  melancholy  light  that  shows  it  more  endear- 
ingly to  our  eyes — the  harp  of  other  years  sounds  with  the  sor- 
row that  never  dies — the  words  heard  are  the  everlasting  Ian- 
guage  of  affection — and  is  not  the  object  of  such  lamentation 
aggrandized  by  thus  being  lifted  into  the  domain  of  poetry  ? 

"  I've  seen  sae  mony  changefu'  years, 

On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  grown ; 
I  wander  in  the  ways  of  men. 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown  ; 
Unheard,  uiipitied,  unrelicv'd : 

I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care. 
For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust. 

Lie  a'  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 


130  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  And  last  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs  !) 
My  noble  master  lies  in  clay ; 
The  Flow'r  amang  our  Barons  bold. 

His  country's  pride,  his  country's  stay  " 

We  go  along  with  such  a  mourner  in  his  exaltation  of  the  cha- 
racter of  the  mourned — jjreat  must  have  been  the  goodness  to 
generate  such  gratitude — that  which  would  have  been  felt  to 
be  exaggeration,  if  expressed  in  a  form  not  thus  imaginative,  is 
here  brought  within  our  unquestioning  sympathy — and  we  are 
prepared  to  return  to  the  event  in  its  reality,  with  undiminished 
fervor,  when  Burns  re-appears  in  his  own  character  without 
any  disguise,  and  exclaims — 

"  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp, 

The  voice  of  wo  and  wild  despair; 
Awake,  resound  thy  latest  lay. 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 
And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fiUest  an  untimely  tomb. 
Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 

Thou  brought  from  fortune's  mirkest  gloom. 

"  In  poverty's  low,  barren  vale, 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involv'd  me  round  ; 
Though  oft  I  turned  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found  : 
Thou  found'st  me,  like  the  morning  sun, 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air, 
The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song 

Became  alike  tliy  fostering  care." 

The  Elegy  on  "  Captain  Matthew  Henderson  " — of  whom 
little  or  nothing  is  now  known — is  a  wonderfully  fine  flight  of 
imagination,  but  it  wants,  we  think,  the  deep  feeling  of  the  "  La- 
ment."  It  may  be  called  a  Rapture.  Burns  says,  "  It  is  a  tri- 
bute to  a  man  I  loved  much  ;"  and  in  "The  Epitaph"  which 
follows  if,  he  draws  his  character — and  a  noble  one  it  is — in 
many  points  resemijling  his  own.  With  the  exception  of  the 
opening  and  concluding  stanzas,  the  Elegy  consists  entirely  of  a 
6uj)plication  to  Nature  to  join  with  him  in  lamenting  the  death 
of  the  "  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born  ;"  and  though  to  our  ears 


CHARACTER   OF  BURNS.  131. 

there  is  something  grating  in  that  term,  yet  the  disagreeable- 
ness  of  it  is  done  away  by  the  words  immediately  following: 

"  Thee,  Mattl^ew,  Nature's  sel'  shall  mourn. 

By  wood  and  wild. 
Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

By  man  exil'd." 

The  poet  is  no  .sooner  on  the  wing,  than  he  rejoices  in  his 
strength  of  pinion,  and  with  equal  ease  soars  and  stoops.  We 
know  not  where  to  look,  in  the  whole  range  of  poetry,  for  an  In- 
vocation to  the  great  and  fair  objects  of  the  e.vternal  world,  so 
rich  and  various  in  imagery,  and  throughout  so  sustained  ;  and 
here  again  we  do  not  fear  to  refer  to  the  Lycidas — and  to  say 
that  Robert  Burns  will  stand  a  comparison  with  John  Milton. 

•'  But  oh,  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
*  Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 

Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme,  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn  : 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint- worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
•  *  *  *  • 

*         *         *  Return,  Sicilian  Muse, 

And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks. 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  ruth  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak'd  with  jet,  * 

The  growing  violet. 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
12 


132  THE  GENIUS  'AND 


With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 
Bid  arnaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daflbditlies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  Laureat  herse  where  Lycid  lies." 

All  who  know  the  "  Lycidas,"  know  how  impossible  it  is  to 
idetach  any  one  single  passage  from  the  rest,  without  marring  its 
beauty  of  relationship — without  depriving  it  (tf  the  charm  con- 
sisting  in  the  rise  and  fall — the  undulation — in  which  the  whole 
divine  poem  now  gently  and  now  magnificently  fluctuates.  But 
even  when  thus  detached,  the  poetry  of  these  passages  is  exqui- 
site— the  expression  is  perfept — consummate  art  has  crowned 
the  conceptions  of  inspired  genius — and  shall  we  dare  set  by 
their  side  stanzas  written  by  a  ploughman  ?  We  shall.  But 
first  hear  Wordsworth.  In  the  Excursion,  the  Pedlar  says — 
and  the  Exciseman  corroborates  its  truth — 

"  The  poets  in  their  elegies  and  hymns 
Lamenting  the  departed,  call  the  groves  ; 
They  call  upon  the  hills  and  streams  to  mourn  ; 
And  senseless  rocks  ;  nor  idly  :  for  they  speak 
In  these  their  invocations  with  a  voice 
Of  human  passion." 

You  have  heard  Milton — hear  Burns — 

"  Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starns, 
That  proudly  cock  your  crested  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

Where  echo  slumbers ! 
Come  join  ye.  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns. 
My  wailing  numbers  ! 

"  Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 
Ye  haz'lly  shavvs  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens, 

Wi'  toddlin'  din. 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stcns, 
Frae  linn  to  linn  ! 

"  Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea, 
Ye  stately  fox^doves  fair  to  see, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  133 

Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow'rs; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flow'rs. 

"  At  dawn,  when  ev'ry  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head  ; 
At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

r  th'  rustling  gale  ; 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail 

"  Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood  ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud  ; 
Ye  kurlews  calling  thro'  a  clud  ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood  ! 

He's  gane  for  ever  I 

*'  Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals ; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels ; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake 
"V  e  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

"  Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flowing  clover  cay  ; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore. 
Tell  thae  far  worlds,  wha  lies  in  clay. 

Wham  ye  deplore. 

•'  Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow'r. 
In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow'r. 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r 

Sets  up  her  horn, 
Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 
*  Till  waukrife  morn  ! 

"Oh,  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  wo  ? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  (low. 


134  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year  ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear : 
Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head, 
Thy  gay,  green,  flow'ry  tresses  shear 

For  him  that's  dead. 

"  Thou,  autumn,  vvi'  thy  yellow  hair, 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 
Thou,  winter,  hurling  thro'  the  air 

The  roaring  blast, 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we've  lost ! 

•*'  Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 
And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright, 

My  JVIatthew  mourn  ! 
For  through  your  orbs  he's  ta'en  his  flight, 

Ne'er  to  return." 

Of  all  Burns's  friends,  the  most  efficient  was  Graham  of  Fin- 
try.  To  him  he  owed  E.xciseman's  diploma — settlement  as  a 
ganger  in  the  District  of  Ten  Parishes,  when  he  was  gudeman 
at  EUisland — translation  as  gauger  to  Dumfries — support  against 
insidious  foes  despicable  yet  not  to  be  despised  with  rumor  at 
their  head — vindication  at  the  Excise  Board — pro  loco  et  tempore 
supervisorship — and  though  he  knew  not  of  it,  security  from 
dreaded  degradation  on  his  deathbed.  "His  First  Epistle  to 
Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry  "  is  in  the  style,  shall  we  say  it,  of  Dry- 
den  and  Pope  ?  It  is  a  noble  composition  ;  and  these  fine,  vigo- 
rous, rough,  and  racy  lines  truly  and  duly  express  at  once  his 
independence  and  his  gratitude  : 

"  Come  thou  who  giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's  grace ; 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes  ! 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  half  blushing,  half  afraid, 
Backward,  abasli'd,  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid  .> 
I  know  my  need,  1  kn^w  thy  giving  hand, 
I  crave  thy  friendship  at  tiiy  kitid  command  , 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  nine — 
Heavens  !  should  the  branded  character  be  mine  ! 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  13S 


Whose  verse  in  manhood's  pride  sublimely  flows, 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  be'^i^iiiji;  prose. 
Marie,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spnrnin'j;  wing  of  injur'd  merit! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find ; 
Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind  ! 
So  to  heaven's  gates  the  lark's  shrill  song  ascends, 
But  groveling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 
In  all  the  clam'rous  cry  of  starving  want. 
They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front 
pblige  them,  patronise  th^ir  tinsel  lays. 
They  persecute  you  all  their  future  days ! 
Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain. 
My  horny  fist  assume  the  plough  again  ; 
■    The  pie-bald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more  ; 
On  eighteen-pence  a-week  I've  liv'd  before. 
Tho'  thanks  to  heaven,  I  dare  even  that  last  shitl 
I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift : 
That,  ]ilac'd  by  thee  upon  the  wish'd-for  height. 
Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight. 
My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublimer  flight." 

Read  over  again  the  last  three  lines  !  The  favor  requested  was 
removal  from  the  laborious  and  e.xtensive  district  which  he  sur- 
veyed for  the  E.Kcise  at  EUisland  to  one  of  smaller  dimensions 
at  Dumfries!  In  another  Epi.stle,  he  renews  the  request,  and 
says  most  affectingly — 

"  I  dread  thee,  fate,  relentless  and  severe. 
With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear  ! 
Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  du^t 
(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  at  noon  appears. 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears) ; 
Oh  !  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  prayer  !— 
Fintry,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare  ! 
Thro'' a  long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown  ; 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down  ! 
May  bliss  domestic  smoothe  his  private  path. 
Give  energy  to  life,  and  sorithe  his  latest  breath. 
With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death  .'" 

The  favor  was  granted — and  in  another  Epistle  was  reciiiitcd 

with  immortal  thanks. 

12» 


1S6  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  I  call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  muse  may  suit  a  bard  that  feigns; 
Friend  of  my  life  !  my  ardent  spirit  burns, 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns. 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 
The  gift  still  dearer,  as  Ihe  giver,  you. 

"  Thou  orb  of  day  !  thy  olher  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 
If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  ettace, 
If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace  ;  « 

Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres. 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years  !" 

Love,  Friendship,  Independence,  Patriotism — these  were  the 
'perpetual  inspirers  of  his  genius,  even  when  they  did  not  form 
the  theme  of  his  effusions.  His  religious  feelings,  his  resent- 
ment against  hypocrisy,  and  other  occasional  inspirations,  availed 
only  to  the  occasion  on  which  they  appear.  But  these  influence 
him  at  all  times,  even  while  there  is  not  a  whisper  abo'ut  them, 
and  when  himself  is  unconscious  of  their  operation.  Every- 
thing most  distinctive  of  his  character  will  be  found  to  apper- 
tain to  them,  whether  we  regard  him  as  a  poet*or  a  man.  Hjs 
Patriotism  was  of  the  true  poetic  kind — intense — exclusive  ; 
Scotland  and  the  climate  of  Scotland  were  in  his  eyes  the  dear- 
est to  nature — Scotland  and  tiie  people  of  Scotland  the  mother 
and  the  children  of  liberty.  In  his  exultation,  when  a  thought 
of  foreign  lands  crossed  his  fancy,  he  asked,  "  Wliat  are  they  ? 
the  haunts  of  the  tyrant  and  slave."  This  was  neither  philoso- 
phical nor  philanthropical  ;  in  this  Burns  was  a  bigot.  And 
the  cosmopolite  may  well  laugh  to  hear  the  cottager  proclaiming 
that  "  the  brave  Caledonian  views  with  disdain "  spicy  forests 
and  gold-bubbling  fountains  with  their  ore  and  their  nutmegs — 
and  blessing  himself  in  scant  apparel  on  "  cauld  Caledonia's 
blast  on  the  wave."  The  doctrine  will  not  stand  the  scrutiny  of 
ludgment  ;  but  with  what  concentraied  power  of  poetry  does 
the  prejudice  burst  forth  ?  Lot  all  lands  have  each  its  own  pre- 
judiced, bigoted,  patriotic  poets,  blind  and  deaf  to  what  lies 
beyond  their  own  horizon,  and  thus  shall  the  whole  habitable 
world  in  due  time  be  glorified.     Shakspeare  himself  was  never 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  137 

so  happy  as  when  setting  up  England  in  power,  in  beauty,  and 
in  majesty  above  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 

In  times  of  national  security  the  feelinc:  of  Patriotism  among 
the  masses  is  so  quiescent  that  it  seems  hardly  to  exist — in  their 
case  national  glory  or  national  danger  awakens  it,  and  it  leaps 
up  armed  cap-a-pie.  But  the  sacred  fire  is  never  extinct  in  a 
nation,  and  in  tranquil  times  it  is  kept  alive  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  are  called  to  high  functions  in  the  public  service — by 
none  is  it  heeled  so  surely  as  by  the  poets.  It  is  the  identifica- 
tion of  individual  feeling  and  interest  vvi-th  those  of  a  commu- 
nity ;  and  so  natural  to  the  human  soul  is  thi^  enlarged  act  of 
sympathy,  that  when  not  called  forth  by  some,  great  pursuit, 
peril,  or  success,  it  applies  itself  intensely  to  internal  policy  ;  and 
hence  the  animosities  and  rancor  of  parties,  which  are  evidences, 
nay  forms,  though  degenerate  ones,  of  the  Patriotic  Fqeling  ;  and 
this  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  on  the  approach  of, common  dan- 
ger, party  differences  in  a  great  measure  cease,  and  are  trans- 
muted into  the  one  harmonious  elemental  Love  of  our  Native 
Land.  Burns  was  said  at  one  time  to  have  been  a  .Jacobin  as 
well  as  a  Jacobite  ;  and  it  must  have  required  even  all  his 
genius  to  effect  such  a  jimction.  He  certainly  wrote  some  so-so 
verses  to  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  like  Cowper,  Wordsworth, 
and  other  great  and  good  men,  rejoiced  when  down  fell  the  Bas- 
tille. But  when  there  was  a  talk  of  taking  our  Island,  he  soon 
evinced  the  nature  of  his  affection  for  the  French. 

"  Does  hau2thty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ? 
Then  let  the  loons  beware,  Sir, 
There's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas, 

And  volunteers  on  shore,  Sir. 
The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon,  . 

And  Criird  sink  in  Sohvay, 
Ere  we  permit  a  foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  to  rally. 

Fall  de  rail,  &,c. 

"  0  let  us  not  like  snarlin'^  tykes 

In  wranj^ling  be  divided  ; 

Till  slap  come  in  an  unco  loon 

And  wi'  a  rung  decide  it. 


13S  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

Amang  oursels  united  ; 
For  never  but  by  British  hands 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 

Fall  de  rail,  &.C. 

"  The  kettle  o'  the  kirk  and  state, 
Perhaps  a  claut  may  fail  in  't ; 
But  deil  a  foreign  tinker  loun 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in 't. 
Our  fathers'  bluid  the  kettle  bought, 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it ; 
By  heaven  the  sacrilegious  dog 
Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

"  The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own. 

And  the  wretch  his  true-born  brother, 
Who  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne. 

May 'they  be  damn'd  together  ! 
Who  will  not  sing,  '  God  save  the  King,' 

Shall  hang  as  high  's  the  steeple; 
But  while  we  sing,  '  God  save  the  King,' 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  People." 

These  are  far  from  being  •'  elegant  "  stanzas — there  is  even  a 
rudeness  about  them — but 't  is  the  rudeness  of  the  Scottisfi  Thistle 
— a  paraphrase  of  '■'■nemo  me  impune  lacesset."  The  staple  of 
the  war-song  is  homo-grown  and  home-spun.  It  flouts  the  air 
like  a  banner  710/  idly  spread,  whereon  "the  ruddy  Lion  ramps 
in  "old."  Not  all  the  orators  of  the  day,  in  Parliament  or  out 
of  it,  in  all  their  speeches  put  together  embodied  more  political 
wisdom,  or  appealed  with  more  effective  power  to  the  noblest 
principles  of  pat.rioti.sm  in  the  British  heart. 

"A  gentleman  of  birth  and  talents"  thus  writes,  in  1835,  to 
Allan  Cunniiighame :  "  I  was  at  the  play  in  Dumfries,  October, 
1792,  the  Caledonian  Hunt  being  then  in  town — the  play  was 
'  As  you  like  it  ' — Miss  Fontenelle,  Rosalind — when  '  God  save 
the  king  '  was  called  for  and  sung  ;  we  all  stood  up  uncovered, 
but  Burns  sat  still  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  with,  his  hat  on  his 
head.  There  was  a  great  tumult,  witli  shouts  of  '  turn  him  out' 
and  '  shame  Burns !'  which  continued  a  good  while  ;  at  last  he 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  '  13'J 


was  either  expelled  or  forced  to  take  off  his  hat — I  forget  which. ' 
And  a  lady  with  whom  Robert  Chambers  once  conversed,  "  re- 
menibered  being  present  in  the  theatre  of  Dumfries,  durin"  the 
lieat  of  the  Revolution,  when  Burns  entered  the  pit  somewhat 
affected  by  liquor.  On  God  save  the  king  being  struck  up,  the 
audience  rose  as  usual,  all  except  the  intemperate  poet,  who 
cried  for  Ca  ira.  A  tumult  was  the  consequence,  and  Burns 
was  compelled  to  leave  the  house."  We  cannot  believe  that 
Burns  ever  was  guilty  of  such  vulgar  insolence — such  brutality  ; 
nothing  else  at  all  like  it  is  recorded  of  him — and  the  worthy 
story-tellers  are  not  at  one  as  to  the  facts.  The  gentleman's 
memory  is  defective  ;  but  had  he  himself  been  the  offender, 
surely  he  would  not  have  forgot  whether  he  had  been  compelled  to 
take  off  his  hat,  or  had  been  jostled,* perhaps  only  kicked  out  of 
the  play-house.  The  lady's  eyes  and  ears  were  sharper — for 
she  saw  "  Burns  enter  the  pit  somewhat  affected  by  liquor,"  and 
then  heard  him  "  cry  for  Ca  ira."  By  w  hat  means  he  was 
"  compelled  to  leave  the  house,"  she  does  not  say ;  but  as  he 
was  "  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,"  he  must  have  been  walked 
out  very  gently,  so  as  not  to  have  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
male  narrator.  If  this  public  outrage  of  all  decorum,  decency, 
and  loyalty,  had  been  -perpetrated  by  Burns,  in  October,  one  is 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  how,  in  December,  he  could  have  been 
"  surprised,  confounded,  and  distracted  by  Mr.  Mitchell,  the  Col- 
lector, telling  me  that  he  has  received  an  order  for  your  Board 
to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and  blaming  me  as  a  person 
disaffected  to  government."  The  fact  we  believe  to  be  this — 
that  Burns,  whose  loyalty  was  suspected,  had  been  rudely  com- 
manded to  take  off  his  hat  by  some  vociferous  time-servers — 
just  as  he  was  going  to  do  so — that  the  row  arose  from  his  de- 
clining to  uncover  on  compulsion,  and  subsided  on  his  disdain- 
fully doffing  his  beaver  of  his  own  accord.  Had  he  cried  for 
Ca  ira,  he  would  have  deserved  dismissal  from  the  Excise  ;  and 
in  his  own  opinion,  translation  to  another  post — "  VVHia  will  not 
sing  God  save  the  King,  shall  hang  as  high  's  the  steeple."  The 
year  before,  "during  the  heat  of  the  French  Revolution,"  Burns 
composed  his  grand  war-song — "Farewell,  thou  fair  dav,  thou 
green  earth,  and. ye  skies,"  and  sent  it  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  with  these 


140  THE  GENIUS  AND 


words  :  *•  I  have  just  finished  the  following  song,  whicii  to  a 
lady,  the  descendant  of  Wallace,  and  many  heroes  of  his  truly 
illustrious  line — and  herself  the  mother  of  several  soldiers — 
needs  neither  preface  nor  apology."  And  the  year  after,  he 
composed  "  The  Poor  and  Honest  Sodger,"  "  >vhich  was  sung,'' 
says  Allan  Cuninghan)e,  "  in  every  cottage,  village,  and  town. 
Yet  the  man  who  wrote  it  was  supposed  by  the  mean  and  tiie 
spiteful  to  be  no  well-wisher  to  his  country  !"  Why,  as  men 
who  have  any  hearts  at  all,  love  their  parents  in  any  circum- 
stances, so  they  love  their  country,  be  it  great  or  small,  poor 
or  wealthy,  learned  or  ignorant,  free  or  enslaved  ;  and  even 
disgrace  and  degradation  will  not  quench  their  filial  affection 
to  it.  But  Scotsmen  have  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  their  coun- 
try ;  not  so  much  for  any -particular  event,  as  for  her  whole 
historical  progress.  Particular  events,  however,  are  thought  of 
by  them  as  the  landnlarks  of  that  progress  ;  and  these  are  the 
great  points  of  history  "  conspicuous  in  the  nation's  eye." 
Fiarlier  times  present  "  the  unconquered  Caledonian  spear  ;" 
later,  tiie  unetjual  but  generally  victorious  struggles  vvitl)  the 
sister  country,  issuing  in  national  independence  ;  and  later  still, 
tiie  lioly  devotion  of  the  soul  of 'he  people  to  their  own  profound 
religious  Faith,  and  its  sim|)le  Forms.  VV'ould  that  Burns  had 
pondered  more  on  tliat  warfare  !  That  he  had  sung  its  final 
triumph  !  But  we  must  be  contented  witli  his  "  Scots  wha  hae' 
wi'  Wallace  bled  ;"  and  with  repeating  after  it  with  him,  "  So 
may  God  defend  the  cause  of  truth  and  liberty,  as  he  did  that 
day  !     Amen  !" 

Mr.  Syme  tells  us  that  Burns  composed  this  ode  on  the  31st 
of  July,  1798,  on  the  moor  road  between  Kenmure  and  Gate- 
house. "  The  sky  was  sympathetic  with  the  wretchedness  of  the 
soil  ;  it  became  lowering  and  dark — tlie  winds  sigm^J  hollow-;- 
the  lightning  gleamed — tlie  thunders  rolled.  The  poet  enjoyed 
the  awful  scene — he  spoke  not  a  word — but  seemed  rapt  in  me- 
ditation. In  a  little  while  the  rain  began  to  fall — it  poured  in 
floods  upon  us.  For  three  hours  did  the  wild  elements  runible 
their  bellyful  u[)on  our  defenceless  heads."  That  is  very  fine 
indeed  ;  and  "  what  do  you  think,"  asks  Mr.  Syme,  "  Burns  was 
about  ?     He  was  charging  the  Englisli  Army  along  with  Bruce 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  141 


at  Bannockbuni."  On  the  second  of  August — when  the  weatlier 
was  more  sedate — on  their  return  from  St.  Mary's  Isle  to  Dum- 
fries, "he  was  engaged  in  the  same  manner;"  and  it  appears 
from  one  of  his  own  letters,  that  he  returned  to  the  charge  one 
evening  in  September.  The  thoughts,  and  feelings,  and  Images, 
came  rushing  upon  him  during  tha  storm — they  formed  them- 
selves into  stanzas,  like  so  many  awkward  squads  of  raw  levies, 
during  the  serene  state  of  the  atmosphere — and  under  the  har- 
vest moon,  firm  as  the  measured  tread  of  marching  men,  with 
admirable  precision  they  wheeled  into  line.  This  account  of 
the  composition  of  the  Ode  would  seem  to  clear  Mr.  Syme  from 
a  charge  nothing  short  of  falsehood  brought  against  him  by 
Allan  Cuninghame.  Mr.  Syme's  words  are,  "  I  said  that  in  the 
midst  of  the  storm,  on  the  wilds  of  Kenmure,  Burns  was  rapt  in 
meditation.  What  do  you  think  he  was  about  ?  He  was  charg- 
ing the  English  army  along  with  Bruce  at  Bannockburn.  He 
was  eufifajred  in  the  same  manner  in  our  ride  home  from  St. 
Mary's  Isle,  and  I  did  not  disturb  him.  Next  day  he  produced 
me  the  address  of  Bruce  to  his  troops,  and  gave  me  a  copy  to  DaJ- 
zcll.'^  Nothing  can  be  more  circumstantial ;  and  if  not  true,  it 
is  a  thumper.  Allan  says,  "  Two  or  three  plain  words,  and  a 
stubborn  date  or  two,  will  go  far  I  fear  to  raise  this  pleasing  le- 
gend into  the  regions  of  romance.  The  Galloway  adventure, 
according  to  Syme,  hapi)ened  in  July;  but  in  the  succeeding 
September,  the  poet  amiounccd  the  song  to  Thomson  in  these 
words :  '  There  is  a  tradition  which  I  have  met  with  in  many 
places  in  Scotland  that  the  air  of  "  Hey  ttittie  taittie  "  was  Robert 
Bruee's  march  at  the  Battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought  in 
my  yesternights  evening  walk  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of  enthu- 
siasm on  the  theme  of  liberty  and  independence,  whicl\,  I  threw 
into  a  kind  of  Scottish  ode — that  one  might  suppose  to  be  the 
royal  Scot's  address  to  his  heroic  followers  on  that  eventful 
morning.  1  showed  tlie  air  to  Urbani,  who  was  greatly  pleased 
with  it,  and  begged  me  to  make  soft  verses  for  it ;  but  I  had  no 
idea  of  giving  myself  any  trouble  on  the  subject  till  the  acci- 
dental recollection  of  tiial  glorious  struggle  for  freedom,  asso- 
ciated with  the  glowins:  idea  of  some  other  strurjcles  of  the  same 
nature,  not  quite  so  ansient,  roused   up   my  rhyming  mania?' 


142  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Currie,  to  make  the  letter  agree  with  the  legend,  altered  yester- 
night's evening  ivalk  into  solitary  wanderings.  Burns  was  in- 
deed a  remarkable  man,  and  yielded  no  doubt  to  strange  im- 
pulses; but  to  compose  a  song  '  in  thunder,  lightning,  and  in 
rain,'  intimates  such  self-possession  as  few  possess."  We  can 
more  readily  believe  that  Burns  wrote  "  yesteniiglit's  evening 
icalk,"  to  save  himself  the  trouble  of  entering  iiito  any  detail  of 
his  previous  study  of  the  subject,  than  that  Syme  told  a  down- 
right lie.  As  to  composing  a  song  in  a  thunder-storm,  Cuning- 
hame — who  is  himself  "  a  remarkable  man,"  and  has  composed 
some  songs  worthy  of  being  classed  with  those  of  Burns,  would 
find  it  one  of  the  easiest  and  pleasantest  of  feats  ;  for  lightning 
is  among  the  most  harmless  vagaries  of  the  electric  fluid,  and  in 
a"  hilly  country,  seldom  singes  but  worsted  stockings  and  sheep. 
Burns  sent  the  Address  in  its  perfection  to  George  Thomson — 
recommending  it  to  be  set  to  th^  old  air — "  Hey  tuitie  taittie  " — 
according  to  Tradition,  who  cannot,  however,  be.  reasonably  ex- 
pected "to  speak  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth  " — Robert  Bruce's  march  at  the  Battle  of  Bannockburn. 
A  committee  of  taste  sat  on  "  Hey  tuttie  taittie,"  and  pronounced 
it  execrable.  "  I  happened  to  dine  yesterday,"  says  Mr.  Thom- 
son, "  with  a  party  of  your  friends,  to  whom  I  read  it.  They  were 
all  charmed  with  it ;  entreated  me  to  find  out  a  suitable  air  for 
it,  and  reprobated  the  idea  of  giving  it  a  tune  so  totally  devoid 
of  interest  or  grandeur  as  'Hey  tuttie  taittie.^  Assuredly  your 
partiality  for  this  tune  must  arise  from  the  ideas  associated  in 
your  mind  by  the  tradition  concerning  it,  for  I  never  heard  any 
person — and  I  have  conversed  again  and  again  with  the  greatest 
enthusiasts  for  Scottish  airs — I  say,  I  never  heard  any  one  speak 
of  it  as  worthy  of  notice.  I  have  been  running  over  the  whole 
hundred  aifs — of  which  I  have  lately  sent  you  the  list — and  I 
think  Lewie  Gordon  is  most  happily  adapted  to  your  ode,  at  K  ast 
with  a  very  slight  alteration  of  the  fourth  line,  which  I  shall 
presently  submit  to  you.  Now  the  variation  I  have  to  suggest 
upon  the  last  line  of  each  verse,  the  only  line  too  short  for  the 
air,  is  as  follows:  Verse  1st,  Or  to  glorious  victory.  2d,  Chains 
— chains  and  slavery.  3d,  Let  him,  let  him  turn  and  flee.  4th, 
Let  him  bravely  follow  me.     5lh,  But  they  shall,  they  shall  be 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  113 


free.  6th,  Let  us,  let  us  do  or  die."  "  Glorious  "  and  "  brave- 
ly," bad  as  they  are,  especially  "  bravely,"  which  is  indeed 
most  bitter  bad,  might  have  been  borne  ;  but  just  suppose  for  a 
moment,  that  Robert  Bruce  had,  in  addressing  his  army  "on  the 
morning  of  that  eventful  day,"  come  over  again  in  that  odd  way 
every  word  he  uttered,  "chains — chains;"  "let  him — let  him;" 
"they  shall — they  shall;"  "let  us — let  us;"  why  the  army 
would  have  thought  him  a  Bauldy  !  Action,  unquestionably,  is 
the  main  point  in  oratory,  and  Bruce  might  have  imposed  on 
many  by  the  peculiar  style  in  which  it  is  known  he  handled  his 
battle-axe,  but  we  do  not  hesitate  to  assert  that  had  he  stuttered 
in  that  style,  the  English  would  have  won  the  day.  Burns 
winced  sorely,  but  did  what  he  could  to  accommodate  Lewie 
Gordon. 

"The  only  line,"  said  Mr.  T.,  "which  I  dislike  in  the  whole 
of  the  song  is  '  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed.'  Would  not  another 
word  be  preferable  to  '  welcome  V  "  Mr.  T.  proposed  "  hon- 
or's bed  ;"  but  Burns  replied,  "  Your  idea  of  'honor's  bed  '  is, 
though  a  beautiful,  a  hackneyed  idea  ;  so  if  you  please  we  will 
let  the  line  stand  as  it  is."  But  Mr.  T.  was  tenacious — "  One 
word  more  with  regard  to  your  heroic  ode.  I  tiiink,  with  great 
deference  to  the  poet,  that  a  prudent  general  would  avoid  saying 
anything  to  his  soldiers  which  might  tend  to  make  death  more 
frightful  than  it  is.  '  Gory  '  presents  a  disagreeable  image  to  the 
mind;  and  to  tell  them,  '  Welcome  to  your  gory  btd,'  seems 
rather  a  discouraging  address,  notwithstanding  the  alternative 
which  follows.  I  ha.ve  shown  ihc  song  to  three  friends  of  crcel/ent 
taste,  and  each  of  them  objected  to  this  line,  which  emboldens 
me  to  use  the  freedom  of  bringing  it  again  under  your  notice. 
I  would  suggest  'Now  prepare  for  honor's  bed,  or  for  glorious 
victory.'"  Quoth  Burns  grimly — "  My  ode  pleases  nie  so  much 
that  I  cannot  alter  it.  Your  proposed  alteration  would,  in  my 
opinion,  make  it  tame.  I  have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over 
again,  and  to  the  world  some  way  or  other  it  shall  go,  as  it  is." 
That  four  Scotsmen,  taken  seriatim  et  separatim — in  the  martial  ar- 
dor  of  their  patriotic  souls  should  object  to  "  Welcome  to  your  gory 
bed,"  from  an  uncommunicated  apprehension  comnjon  to  the  na- 
ture of  them  all  and  operating  like  an  instinct,  that  it  was  tilted 

13 


144  THE  GENIUS  AND 


lo  frighten  Robert  Bruce's  army,  and  make  it  take  to  its  heels, 
leaving  the  cause  of  Liberty  and  Independence  to  shift  for  itself, 
is  a  coincidence  that  sets  at  defiance  trie  doctrine  of  chances, 
proves  history  to  be  indeed  an  old  almanack,  and  national  cha- 
racter an  empty  name. 

"  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victory. 

"  Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery  ! 

"  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  gra_ve  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

"  Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa'. 
Let  him  on  wi'  me  ! 

"  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

"  Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
T)  rants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die  !" 

All  Scotsmen  at  home  and  abroad  swear  this  is  the  Grandest  Ode 
out  of  the  Bible.  What  ;f  it  be  not  an  Ode  at  all  ?  An  Ode, 
however,  let  it  be;  then,  wherein  lies  the  power  it  possesses  of 
stirring  up  into  a  devouri-ng  fire  ihc  perfervidum  ingenium  Scoto- 
rum?  The  two  armies  suddenly  stand  before  us  in  order  of  bat- 
tle— and  in  the  grim  repose  preceding  the  tempest  we  hear  but 
the  voice  of  Bruce.  The  whole  Scottish  army  hears  it — now 
standing   on    their  feet — risen    from  their  knees  as  the  abbot 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  145 

of  Inchchaffray  had  blessed  them  and  the  Banner  of  Scotland 
with  its  roots  of  Stone.  At  the  first  six  words  a  hollow  murmur 
is  in  that  wood  of  spears.  "  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed  !"  a 
shout  that  shakes  the  sky.  Hush  !  hear  the  King.  At  Edward's 
name  what  a  yell !  "  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ?"  Mutter- 
ing tiiunder  growls  reply.  The  inspired  Host  in  each  appeal 
anticipates  the  Leader — yet  shudders  with  fresh  wrath,  as  if 
each  reminded  it  of  some  intolerable  wTono;.  "  Let  us  do  or 
die  " — the  English  are  overthrown — and  Scotland  is  free. 

1  hat  is  a  very  ScoUish  critique  indeed — but  none  the  worse 
for  that ;  so  our  English  friends  must  forgive  it,  and  be  consoled 
by  Flodden.  The  Ode  is  sublime.  Death  and  Life  at  that 
hour  ai-e  one  and  the  same  to  the  heroes.  So  that  Scotland  but 
survive,  what  is  breath  or  blood  to  them  ?  Their  beinsr  is  in 
their  country's  liberty,  and  with  it  secured  they  will  live  for 
ever. 

Our  critique  is  getting  more  and  more  Scottish  still  ;  so  to  rid 
ourselves  of  nationality,  we  request  such  of  you  as  think  we  over- 
laud  the  Ode  to  point  out  one  w-ord  in  it  that  would  be  better 
away.  You  cannot.  Then  pray  have  the  goodness  to  point  out 
one  word  missing  that  ought  to  have  been  there — please  to  insert  a 
desiderated  stanza.  You  cannot.  Then  let  the  bands  of  all  the 
Scottish  regiments  play  "  Hey  tuittie  taitie  ;"  and  the  two  Dun- 
Edins  salute  one  another  with  a  salvo  that  shall  startle  the 
echoes  from  Berwick-Law  to  Benniore. 

Of  the  delight  with  which  Burns  labored  for  Mr.  Thomson's 
Collection,  his  letters  contain  some  lively  description.  "You 
cannot  imagine,"  says  he,  7th  April,  1793,  '•  how  much  this 
business  has  added  to  my  enjoyment.  What  with  my  early 
attachment  to  ballads,  your  hook  and  ballad-making  are  now  as 
completely  my  hobby  as  ever  fortification  was  my  uncle  Toby's  ; 
so  I'll  e'en  canter  it  away  till  I  come  to  the  limit  of  my  race  (God 
grant  I  mav  take  tiie  right  side  of  the  winning  post),  and  then, 
cheerfully  looking  back  on  the  honest  folks  with  whom  I  have 
been  happv,  I  shall  say  or  sing,  '  Sae  merry  as  we  a'  iiae  been,' 
and  raising  my  last  looks  to  the  whole  human  race,  the  last 
words  of  the  voice  of  Coila  shall  be,  'Good  night  and  joy  be 
with  you  a'!'  "     James  Gray  was  the   first,  who  indepcndenlly 


lie  THE  GENIUS  AND 


of  every  other  argument,  proved  the  impossibility  of  the  charges 
that  had  too  long  been  suffered  to  circulate  without  refutation 
against  Burns's  character  and  conduct  during  his  later  years, 
by  pointing  to  these  almost  daily  effusions  of  his  clear  and  un- 
clouded genius.  His  innumerable  Letters  furnish  the  same 
best  proof;  and  when  we  consider  how  much  of  his  time  was 
occupied  by  his  professional  duties,  how  much  by  perpetual 
interruption  of  visitors  from  all  lands,  how  much  by  blameless 
social  intercourse  with  all  classes  in  Dumfries  and  its  neighbor- 
hood, and  how  frequently  he  suffered  under  constitutional  ail- 
ments affecting  the  very  seat  and  source  of  life,  we  cannot  help 
despising  the  unreflecting  credulity  of  his  biographers  who  with 
such  products  before  their  eyes,  such  a  display  of  feeling,  fancy, 
imagination  and  intellect  continually  alive  and  on  the  alert, 
could  keep  one  after  another  for  twenty  years  in  doleful  disser- 
tations deploring  over  his  habits — most  of  them  at  the  close  of 
their  wearisome  moralizing  anxious  to  huddle  all  up,  that  his 
countrymen  might  not  be  obliged  to  turn  away  their  faces  in 
shame  from  the  last  scene  in  the  Tragedy  of  tlie  Life  of  Robert 
Burns. 

During  the  four  years  Burns  lived  in  Dumfries  he  was  never 
known  for  one  hour  to  be  negligent  of  his  professional  duties. 
AVe  are  but  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  bu- 
siness of  a  sjauger,  but  the  calling  must  be  irksome  ;  and  he  was 
an  active,  steady,  correct,  courageous  officer — to  be  relied  on 
equally  in  his  conduct  and  his  accounts.  Josiah  Walker,  who 
was  himself,  if  we  mistake  not,  for  a  good  many  years  in  the 
Customs  or  Excise  at  Perth,  will  not  allow  him  to  have  been  a 
good  gauger.  In  descanting  on  the  unfortunate  circumstances 
of  his  situation,  he  savs  with  a  voice  of  authority,  "  his  superi- 
ors were  bound  to  attend  to  no  qualification,  i)ut  such  as  was 
conducive  to  the  benefit  of  the  revenue  ;  and  it  would  i^ave  been 
equally  criminal  in  them  to  pardon  any  incorrectness  on  account 
of  his  literary  genius,  as  on  account  of  his  dexterity  in  plough- 
ing. The  merchant  or  attorney  who  acts  for  himself  alone,  is 
free  to  overlook  some  errors  of  his  clerk,  for  the  sake  of  merits 
totally  unconnected  with  business  ;  i)ut  the  Board  of  Excise  had 
no  power  to  indulge  their   poetical    taste,  or  their  tenderness  for 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  147 

liim  by  whom  it  had  been  gratified,  at  the  expense  of  the  public. 
Burns  was  therefore  in  a  place  where  he  could  turn  his  peculiar 
eiidowiiionts  to  little  advantage  ;  and  wliere  he  could  not,  with- 
out injustice,  be  preferred  to  the  most  obtuse  and  uninteresting 
of  his  brethren,  wlio  surpassed  him  in  the  humble  recommenda- 
tion of  exactness,  vigilance,  and  sobriety.  Attention  to  these 
circumstances  might  have  prevented  insinuations  against  the 
liberality  of  his  superior  officers,  for  showing  so  little  desire  to 
advance  him,  and  so  little  indulgence  to  tiiosfc  eccentricities  for 
which  the  natural  temperament  of  genius  could  be  pleaded. 
For  two  years,  however,  Burns  stood  sufficiently  high  in  tlic 
opinion  of  the  Board,  and  it  is  surely  by  no  means  improper, 
that  where  professional  |)retensions  are  nearly  balanced,  the  ad- 
ditional claims  of  literary  talent  should  be  permitted  to  turn  the 
scale.  Such  was  the  reasoning  of  a  particul-ar  member  of  the 
Board,  whose  taste  and  munificence  were  of  corresponding  ex- 
tent, and  who  saw  no  injustice  in  giving  some  preference  to  an 
officer  who  could  write  permits  as  well  as  any  other,  and  poems 
much  better."  Not  for  worlds  would  we  say  a  single  syllable 
derogatory  from  tiie  merits  of  the  Board  of  Excise.  We  respect 
the  character  of  the  defunct ;  and  did  we  not,  still  we  should 
have  tlie  most  delicate  regard  to  the  feelintrs  of  its  descendants, 
many  of  whom  are  probably  now  prosperous  gentlemen.  It  was 
a  Board  that  richly  deserved,  in  all  its  dealings,  the  utmost  eulo- 
gies with  which  the  genius  and  c-ratitude  of  Josiah  VV^ilkcr  could 
brifrjiten  its  (rreen  cloth.  Most  criminal  indeed  would  it  have 
l)een  in  such  a  Hoard — most  wicked  and  most  sinful — "to  ])ar- 
don  any  incorrectness  on  account  of  Burns's  literary  genius,  as 
on  account  of  his  dexterity  in  ploughing."  Deeply  impressed 
with  a  sense — approaciiing  to  that  of  awe — of  the  responsiI)ility 
of  the  Board  to  its  conscience  and  ils  country,  we  fed  that  it 
is  better  hitn  than  never,  thus  to  declare  bef  )rc  tlie  whole  world, 
A.  D.  1«4(),  that  from  winter  1791  to  summer  ITiXi.tlie  "  Board 
had  no  power  to  indulge  their  poetical  taste,  or  their  tenli-r- 
ness  for  him  l)y  whom  it  had  been  gratified,  at  the  expense 
of  the  public."  The  Board,  we  doubt  not,  had  a  true  innate 
poetical  taste,  and  must  have  derived  a  far  higher  and  deepei 
delight  from  the  poems  than  the  permits  of"  Burns  ;   nay,  we  are 

13» 


148  THE  GENIUS  AND 


willing  to  believe  that  it  was  itself  llio  author  of  a  volume  of 
poetry,  and  editor  of  a  literary  journal. 

But  surpassing  even  Josiah  Walker  in  our  veneration  of  the 
Board,  we  ask,  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  character  of 
Burns?  Its  desire  and  its  impotency  to  promote  him  are 
granted  ;  but  of  what  incorrectness  had  Burns  been  guilty, 
which  it  would  have  been  criminal  in  the  Board  to  pardon  ? 
By  whom,  among  the  "  most  obtuse  and  uninteresting  of  his 
brethren,"  had  he  been  surpassed  "  in  the  humble  reconmien- 
dation  of  exactness,  vigilance,  and  sobriety  ?"  Not  by  a  single 
one.  Mr.  Findlater,  who  was  Burns's  supervisor  from  his  ad- 
mission into  the  Excise,  and  sat  hy  him  the  night  before  he  died, 
says,  "  In  all  that  time,  the  superintendence  of  his  behavior, 
as  an  officer  of  the  revenue,  was  a  part  of  my  official  pro- 
vince, and  it  may  he  supposed  I  would  not  be  an  inattentive 
observer  of  the  general  conduct  of  a  man  and  a  poet  so  cele- 
brated by  his  countrymen.  In  the  former  capacity  he  was  ex- 
emplary in  his  attention,  and  was  even  jealous  of  the  least 
imputation  on  his  vigilance.  *  *  *  jj  ^^^g  jjyf  ^]\\  near 
the  latter  end  of  his  days,  that  there  was  any  falling  off  in 
this  respect,  and  this  was  amply  accounted  for  in  the  pressure 
of  disease  and  accumulating  infirmities.  I  will  farther  avow, 
that  I  never  saw  him — which  was  very  frequently  while  he 
lived  at  Ellisland — and  still  more  so,  almost  every  day,  after  he 
removed  to  Dumfries,  but  in  hours  of  business  he  was  quite  him- 
self, and  capable  of  discharging  the  duties  of  his-  office  ;  nor 
was  he  ever  known  o  drink  by  himself,  or  ever  to  indulge  in 
the  use  of  liquor  on  a  forenoon.  1  have  seen  Burns  in  all  his 
various  phases — in  liis  convivial  moments,  in  his  sober  moods, 
and  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  ;  indeed,  I  believe  that  1  saw 
more  of  him  than  any  other  individual  had  occasion  to  see, 
after  he  became  an  excise  officer,  and  I  never  beheld  any- 
thing like  the  gross  enormities  with  which  he  is  now  charged. 
That  when  set  down  on  an  evening  with  a  few  friends  whom  he 
liked,  lie  was  apt  to  prolong  the  social  hour  beyond  the  bounds 
which  prudc'ice  would  dictate,  is  unquestionable ;  but  in  his 
family  I  vvill  venture  to  say  he  was  never  otherwise  than  as 
attentive  and  alfcctionate  to  a  hi<i;h  degree."     Such  is  tiie  testi- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  149 

mony  of  the  supervisor  respecting  the  gauger ;  and  in  that  ca- 
pacity Burns  stands  up  one  of  its  very  best  servants  before  the 
Board.  There  was  no  call,  therefore,  for  Josiah's  Jeremiad, 
But  our  words  have  not  been  wasted  ;  for  Burns's  character  has 
suifered  far  more  from  such  aspersions  as  these,  whicii,  easily 
as  they  can  be  wiped  away,  were  too  long  left  as  admitted  stains 
on  his  memory,  than  from  definite  and  direct  charges  of  specific 
facts  ;  and  it  is  still  the  duty  of  every  man  who  writes  about 
him,  to  apply  the  sponge.  Nothing,  we  repeat,  siiall  tempt  us 
to  blame  or  abuse  the  Board.  But  we  venture  humbly  to  con- 
fess that  we  do  not  clearly  see  that  the  Board  would  have  been 
"gratifying  its  tenderness  at  the  expense  of  the  public,"  had  it, 
when  told  by  Burns  that  he  was  dying,  and  disabled  by  the  hand 
of  God  from  performing  actively  the  duties  of  his  temporary  su- 
pervisorship,  requested  its  maker  to  continue  to  him  for  a  few 
months  his  full  salary — seventy  pounds  a  year — instead  of  re- 
ducing it  in  the  proportion  of  one-half — not  because  he  was  a 
genius,  a  poet,  and  the  author  of  many  immortal  productions — 
but  merely  because  he  was  a  man  and  an  exciseman,  and 
moreover  the  father  of  a  few  mortal  children,  who  with  their 
mother  were  in  want  of  bread. 

Gray,  whom  we  knew  well  and  highly  esteemed,  was  a  very 
superior  man  to  honest  Findlater — a  man  of  poetical  taste  and 
feeling,  and  a  scholar — on  all  accounts  well  entitled  to  speak  of 
the  character  of  Burns;  and  though  there  were  no  bounds  to  his 
enthusiasm  when  poets  and  poetry  ^w^e  the  themes  of  his  dis- 
course, he  was  a  worshipper  of  truth,  and  rightly  believed  that 
it  was  best  seen  in  the  light  of  love  and  admiration.  Compare 
his  bold,  generous,  and  impassioned  eulogy  on  the  noble  quali- 
ties and  dispositions  of  his  illustrious  friend,  with  the  timid, 
guarded,  and  repressed  praise  for  ever  bordering  on  censure,  of 
biographers  who  never  saw  the  poet's  face,  and  yet  have  dared 
to  draw  his  character  with  the  same  assurance  of  certainty  in 
their  delineations  as  if  they  had  been  of  the  number  of  his 
familiars,  and  had  looked  a  thousand  times,  by  niirht  and  day, 
into  tiie  saddest  secrets  of  his  heart.  Far  better,  surely,  in  a 
world  like  this,  to  do  more  rather  tliau  less  than  justice  to  the 
goodness  of  great   men.     No  fear  that   the   world,  in  its  final 


150  THE  GENIUS  AND 


judgment,  will  not  make  sufficient  deduction  from  the  laud,  if 
it  be  exaggerated,  which  love,  inspired  by  admiration  and  pit)', 
delights  to  bestow,  as  the  sole  tribute  now  in  its  power,  on  the 
virtues  of  departed  genius.  Calumny  may  last  for  ages — we 
had  almost  said  for  ever;  lies  have  life  even  in  their  graves,  and 
centuries  after  they  have  been  interred  they  will  burst  their 
cerements,  and  walk  up  and  down,  in  the  face  of  day,  undistin- 
guishable  to  the  weak  eyes  ot  mortals  from  truths — till  they 
touch  ;  and  then  the  truths  expand,  and  the  lies  shrivel  up,  but 
after  a  season  to  reappear,  and  to  be  welcomed  back  again  by 
the  dwellers  in  tliis  delusive  world. 

"  He  was  courted,"  says  Gray,  "  by  all  classes  of  men  for  the 
fascinating  powers  of  his  conversation,  but  over  his  social  scene 
uncontrolled  passion  never  presided.  Over  the  social  bowl,  his 
wit  flashed  for  hours  together,  penetrating  whatever  it  struck, 
like  the  fire  from  heaven  ;  but  even  in  the  hour  of  thouglitless 
gaiety  and  merriment  I  never  knew  it  tainted  by  indecency.  It 
was  playful  or  caustic  by  turns,  following  an  allusion  through 
all  its  windings;  astonishing  by  its  rapidity,  or  anmsing  by  its 
wild  originality  and  grotesque  yet  natural  combinations,  bi^ 
never,  within  my  observation,  disgusting  by  its  grossncss.  In 
his  morning  hours,  I  never  saw  him  like  one  suft'ering  from  the 
cflects  of  last  night's  intemperance.  He  appeared  then  clear 
and  unclouded.  He  was  the  eloquent  advocate  of  humanity,  jus- 
tice, and  political  freedom.  From  his  paintings,  virtue  appeared 
more  lovely,  and  piety  assumed  a  more  celestial  mien.  Wliile 
iiis  keen  eye  was  pregnant  with  fancy  and  feeling,  and  his  voice 
attuned  to  the  very  passion  whicli  he  wished  to  communicate,  it 
would  hardly  have  been  possible  to  conceive  any  l)eing  more 
interestinj;  and  delijihtful.  *  *  *  The  men  with  whom  he  gene- 
rally  associated,  were  not  of  the  lowest  order.  He  numbered 
among  his  intimate  friends,  many  of  the  most  respectable  inhab- 
itants of  Dumfries  and  the  vicinity.  Several  of  those  v/ere 
attached  to  him  by  ties  that  the  hand  of  calumny,  busy  as  it 
was,  could  never  snap  asunder.  They  admired  the  po(!t  for  his 
genius,  and  loved  the  man  for  the  candor,  generosity,  and  kind- 
ness of  his  nature.  His  early  friends  clung  to  him  tlirough 
good  and  bad   report,  with  a  zeal  and  fidelity  that  prove  their 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  151 

disbelief  of  the  malicious  stories  circulated  to  liis  disadvantage. 
Amoii"-  tiiem  were  some  of  the  most  distiii<ruislicd  characters  in 
this  country  and  not  a  few  females,  eminent  for  delicacy,  taste, 
and  genius.  They  were  proud  of  his  friendship,  and  cherished 
him  to  the  last  moment  of  his  existence.  He  was  endeared 
to  them  even  by  his  misfortunes,  and  they  still  retain  for  his 
memory  that  affectionate  veneration  which  virtue  alone  inspires." 
Gray  tells  us  too  that  it  came  under  his  own  view  profession- 
ally, that  Burns  superintended  the  education  of  his  children — 
and  promising  children  they  were,  nor  has  that  promise  been 
disappointed — with  a  degree  of  care  that  he  had  never  known  sur- 
passed by  any  parent  whatever  ;  that  to  see  him  in  the  happie&t 
light  you  had  to  see  him,  as  he  often  did,  in  his  own  house,  and 
that  nothing  could  exceed  the  mutual  alFection  between  husband 
and  wife  in  that  lowly  tenement.  Yet  of  this  man,  Josiah 
Walker,  who  claims  to  have  been  his  friend  as  well  as  James 
Gray,  writes,  "  soured  by  disappointment,  and  stung  with  oc- 
casional remorse,  impatient  of  finding  little  to  interest  him  at  home, 
and  rendered  inconstant  from  returns  of  his  hypochondriacal 
ailment,  multiplied  by  his  irregular  life,  he  saw  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  terms  with  the  world  ;  and  abandoned  the  attempt  in  a 
rash  and  regardless  despair!''^ 

It  may  be  thought  by  some  that  we  have  referred  too  fre- 
quently to  Walker's  Memoir,  perhaps  that  we  have  spoken  of  it 
with  too  much  asperity,  and  that  so  respectable  a  person  merited 
tenderer  treatment  at  our  hands.  He  was  a  respectable  person, 
and  for  that  very  reason,  we  hope  by  our  strictures  to  set  him 
aside  for  ever  as  a  biographer  of  Burns.  He  had  been  occasion- 
ally in  company  with  the  Poet  in  Edinburgh,  in  1787,  and  had 
seen  him  during  hissiiort  visit  at  Athol  house.  "  Circumstances 
led  him  to  Scotland  in  November,  1795,  after  an  absence  of  eight 
years,  and  he  felt  strongly  prompted  "  to  visit  his  old  friend  ; 
for  your  common-place  man  immediately  becomes  hand  in  glove 
with  your  man  of  genius,  to  whom  he  has  introduced  himself, 
and  ever  after  the  first  interview  designates  him  by  that  flatter- 
ing  appellation  "  my  friend."  "  For  this  purpose  I  went  to 
Dumfries,  and  called  upon  him  early  in  the  forenoon.  I  found 
him  in  a  small   house  of  one  storv.     He  was  sitting'   in   a  win- 


152  THE  GENIUS  AIS'D 


dow-seat  reading  with  the  doors  open,  and  the  family  arrange- 
ments going  on  in  his  presence,  and  ahogether  without  that  snu"-- 
ness  and  seclusion  which  a  student  requires.  After  conversintr 
with  him  for  some  time,  he  proposed  a  walk,  and  promised  to 
conduct  me  through  some  of  his  favorite  haunts.  We  accord- 
ingly quitted  the  town,  and  wandered  a  considerable  way  up  the 
beautiful  banks  of  the  Nith.  Here  he  gave  me  an  account  of 
his  latest  productions,  and  repeated  some  satirical  ballads  which 
he  had  composed,  to  favor  one  of  the  Candidates  at  last  elec- 
tion. These  I  thought  inferior  to  his  other  pieces,  though  they 
had  some  lines  in  which  dignity  compensated  for  coarseness. 
He  repeated  also  his  fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Liberty,  with  marked 
and  peculiar  energy,  and  showed  a  disposition  which,  however, 
was  easily  repressed,  to  throw  out  political  remarks,  of  the  same 
nature  with  those  for  which  he  had  been  reprehended.  On 
finishing  our  walk,  he  passed  some  time  with  me  at  the  inn,  and 
I  left  him  early  in  the  evening,  to  make  another  visit  at  some 
distance  from  Dumfries.  On  the  second  morning  after  I  returned 
with  a  friend — who  was  acquainted  with  the  poet — and  we  found 
him  ready  to  pass  a  part  of  the  day  with  us  at  the  inn.  On  tliis 
occasion  I  did  not  think  hiin  quite  so  interesting  as  he  had  ap- 
peared at  the  outset.  His  conversation  was  too  elaborate,  and 
his  expression  weakened  by  a  frequent  endeavor  to  give  it  arti- 
ficial strength.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  speak  for  applause 
in  the  circles  which  he  frequented,  and  seemed  to  think  it  ne- 
cessary, in  making  the  most  conmion  remark,  to  depart  a  little 
from  the  ordinary  simplicity  of  language,  and  to  couch  it  in 
something  of  epigrammatic  point.  In  his  praise  and  censure  he 
was  so  decisive,  as  to  render  a  dissent  from  his  judgment  diffi- 
cult to  be  reconciled  with  the  laws  of  good  breeding.  His  wit 
was  not  more  licentious  than  is  unhappily  too  venial  in  higher 
circles,  though  I  thought  him  rather  unnecessarily  free  in  the 
avowal  of  his  excesses.  Such  were  the  clouds  by  which  the 
pleasures  of  the  evening  were  partially  shaded,  but  coruscations 
of  genius  were  visible  between  them.  When  it  began  to  grow 
late,  he  showed  no  disposition  to  retire,  but  called  for  fresh  sup- 
])lies  of  iiauor  with  a  freedom  which  might  be  excusable,  as  we 
were  in   an  inn,  and   no  condition   had  been  distinctly  made, 


CHARACTER  OF   BURNS.  153 

though  it  might  easily  have  been  inferred,  had  the  inference 
been  welcome,  that  he  was  to  consider  himself  as  our  guest; 
nor  was  it  till  he  saw  us  worn  out,  that  he  departed  about  three 
in  the  morning  with  a  reluctance,  which  probal)ly  proceeded 
less  from  being  deprived  of  our  company,  than  from  being  con- 
fined  to  his  own.  Upon  the  whole,  I  found  this  last  interview 
not  quite  so  gratifying  as  1  had  expected  ;  although  I  discovered 
in  his  conduct  no  errors  which  I  had  not  seen  in  men  who  stand 
high  in  the  favor  of  society,  or  sufficient  to  account  for  the  mys- 
terious insinuations  which  I  heard  against  his  character.  He  on 
this  occasion  drank  freely  without  being  intoxicated — a  circum- 
stance from  which  T  concluded,  not  only  that  his  constitution 
was  still  unbroken,  but  that  he  was  not  addicted  to  solitary  cor- 
dials  ;  for  if  he  had  tasted  liquor  in  the  morning,  he  must  have 
easily  yielded  to  the  excess  of  the  evening.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, always  escape  so  well.  About  two  months  after,  return- 
ing at  the  same  unseasonable  hour  from  a  similar  revel,  in  which 
he  was  probably  better  supported  by  his  companions,  he  was  so 
much  disordered  as  to  occasion  a  considerable  delay  in  ecttinji 
home,  where  he  arrived  witii  the  chill  of  cold  without,  and  ine- 
briety within,"  &;c. 

And  for  this  the  devotee  had  made  what  is  called  "  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  genius "  as  far  as  Dumfries ! 
Is  this  the  spirit  in  which  people  with  strong  propensities 
for  poetry  are  privileged  to  write  of  poets,  long  after  they 
have  been  gatliered  to  their  rest  ?  No  tenderness — no  pity — 
no  respect — no  admiration — no  gratitude — no  softening  of  heart 
— no  kindling  of  sj)irit — on  recollection  of  his  final  farewell  to 
Robert  Burns  !  If  the  interview  had  not  been  satisfactory,  he 
was  bound  in  friendship  to  have  left  no  record  of  it.  Silence  in 
that  case  was  a  duty  especially  incumbent  on  him  who  had 
known  Burns  in  happier  timeS;  when  "  Dukes,  and  Lords,  and 
mighty  Earls "  were  proud  to  receive  the  ploughman.  He 
might  not  know  it  then,  but  he  knew  it  soon  afterwards,  that 
Burns  was  much  broken  down  in  body  and  spirit. 

Those  two  days  should  have  worn  to  him  in  rrtrospeet  a 
mournful  complexion  ;  and  the  more  so,  that  he  believed  Burns 
to  have  been  then  a  ruined  man  in  character,  which  he  had  once 


151  THE  GENIUS  AND 


prized  above  life.  He  calls  upon  him  early  in  the  forenoon,  and 
finds  him  "  in  a  small  house  of  one  story  (it  happened  to  have 
two),  on  a  window-seal  reading,  with  the  doors  open,  and  the 
family  arrangements  going  on  in  his  presence."  After  eight 
years'  absence  from  Scotland,  did  not  his  heart  leap  at  the  sight 
of  her  greatest  son  sitting  thus  happy  in  his  own  humble  house- 
hold ?  Twenty  years  after,  did  not  his  heart  melt  at  the  rising 
up  of  the  sanctified  image  ?  No — for  the  room  was  "  altogether 
wilhout  thai  appearance  of  snugness  and  seclusion  which  a  stu- 
dent requires  !"  The  poet  conducted  him  through  some  of  his 
beautiful  haunts,  and  for  his  amusement  let  off"  son)e  of  his 
electioneering  squibs,  which  are  among  the  very  best  ever 
composed,  and  Whiggish  as  they  are,  might  have  tickled  a 
Tory  as  they  jogged  along  ;  but  Jos  thought  them  "  inferior 
to  his  other  pieces,"  and  so  no  doubt  they  were  to  the  "  Cot- 
tar's Saturday  Night,"  and  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled.^' 
Perhaps  they  walked  as  far  as  Lincluden — and  the  bard  re- 
peated his  famous  fragment  of  an  "  Ode  to  Liberty  " — with 
"  marked  and  peculiar  energy."  The  listener  ought  to  have 
lost  his  wits,  and  to  have  leapt  sky-high.  But  he  who  was 
destined  to  "  The  Defence  of  Order,"  felt  himself  called  by  the 
voice  that  sent  him  on  that  mission,  to  rebuke  the  bard  on 
the  banks  of  h's  own  river — for  "  he  showed  a  disposition  which, 
however,  was  easily  repressed,  to  throw  out  political  remarks, 
of  the  same  nature  witii  those  for  which  he  had  been  repre- 
hended," three  years  before  by  tlie  Board  of  Excise !  Mr. 
Walker  was  not  a  Commissioner.  Burns,  it  is  true,  liad  been 
told  "  not  to  think  ;"  but  here  was  a  favorable  opportunity  for  vio- 
lating with  safety  that  imperial  mandate.  Woods  have  ears, 
but  in  their  whispers  they  betray  no  secrets — had  Burns  talked 
treason,  'twould  have  been  pity  to  stop  his  tongue.  Tliis  world 
is  yet  rather  in  the  dark  as  to  "  the  political  remarks  for  which 
he  had  been  reprehended,"  and  as  he  "  threw  out  some  of  the 
same  nature,"  why  was  the  world  allowed  to  remain  unenlight- 
ened ?  What  right  had  Josiah  Walker  to  repress  any  remarks 
made,  in  tlie  confidence  of  friendship,  by  Robert  Burns?  And 
what  power  ?  Had  Burns  chosen  it,  lie  could  as  easily  have 
squahashcd  .Tosiah  as  thrown  him  into  the  Nitii.     He  was  not  to 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  l')5 


be  put  down  by  fifty  such  ;  he  may  have  refrained,  but  he  was 
not  repressed,  and  in  courtesy  to  liis  companion,  treated  him 
with  an  old  wife's  song. 

The  record  of  the  second  day  is  shameful.  To  ask  any  per- 
son, however  insignificant,  to  your  inn,  and  tiien  fiiul  fault  witli 
him  in  a  private  letter  for  keeping  you  out  of  bed,  would  not  be 
gentlemanly;  but  of  such  an  offence  twenty  years  after  his  death 
publicly  to  accuse  Burns!  No  mention  is  made  of  dinner — and 
we  shrewdly  suspect  Burns  dined  at  home.  However,  he  gave 
up  two  days  to  the  service  of  his  friend,  and  his  friend's  friend, 
and  such  was  his  reward.  Why  did  not  this  dignified  personage 
"repress"  Burns's  licentious  wit  as  well  as  his  political  opi- 
nions? If  it  was  "not  more  licentious  than  is  unhappily  too  ve- 
nial in  higher  circles,"  why  mention  it  at  all  ?  What  were  "  the 
excesses  "of  which  he  was  unnecessarily  free  in  the  avowal? 
They  cauld  not  have  regarded  unlawful  intercourse  with  the 
sex — for  "  they  were  not  sufficient  to  account  for  the  mysterious 
insinuations  against  his  character,"  all  of  which  related  to  wo. 
men.  Yet  this  wretched  mixture  of  meanness,  worldliness,  and 
morality,  interlarded  with  some  liberal  sentiment,  and  spiced  witii 
spite,  absolutely  seems  intended  for  a  vindication  ! 

There  are  generally  two  ways  at  least  of  telling  the  same 
story;  and  'tis  pity  wc  have  not  Burns's  own  account  of  tluit  long 
sederunt.  It  is  clear  that  before  midnight  he  had  made  the  dis- 
covery that  his  right  and  his  left  hand  assessor  were  a  couple  of 
solemn  blockheads,  and  that  to  relieve  the  tedium,  he  kept  ply- 
ing them  with  all  manner  oihams.  Both  gentlemen  were  proba- 
bly in  black,  and  thougli  laymen,  decorous  as  deacons  on  reli- 
gion and  morality — and  defendirsof  the  faith — sententious  cham- 
pions of  Cliurch  and  State.  It  must  have  been  amusing  to  see 
them  gape.  Nobody  ever  denied  that  Burns  always  conducted 
himself  with  the  utmost  propriety  in  presence  of  those  whom  he 
respected  for  their  genius,  their  learning,  or  their  worth.  With- 
out sacrificing  an  atom  of  Ids  independence,  how  deferential, 
nav,  how  reverential  was  he  in  his  behavior  to  Dugald  Stewart ! 
ITad  lie  and  Dr.  Blair  entertained  Burns  as  tiieir  guest  in  that 
inn,  how  deliarhtful  had  been  the  evening's  record  !  No  such 
"  licentious  wit   as    is  unhappily  too  venial   in    higher   circles," 

li 


156  THE  GENIUS  AND 


would  have  flowed  from  his  lips — no  "  unnecessarily  free  avowal 
of  his  excesses."  He  would  have  delighted  the  philosopher  and 
the  divine  with  his  noble  sentiments  as  he  had  done  of  old — the 
illustrious  Professor  would  have  remembered  and  heard  aajain 
the  beautiful  eloquence  that  charmed  him  on  the  Braid-hills. 
There  can  be  nothing  unfair  surely  in  the  conjecture,  that  these 
gentlemen  occasionally  contributed  a  sentence  or  two  to  the  stock 
of  conversation.  Tliey  were  entertaining  Burns,  and  good  man- 
ners must  have  induced  them  now  and  then  "  here  to  interpose  " 
with  a  small  smart  remark — sentiment  facete^-or  unctuous  an- 
ecdote. Having  lived  in  "  higher  circles,"  and  heard  much  of 
the  "  licentious  wit  unhappily  too  venial  there,"  we  do  not  well 
see  how  they  could  have  avoided  giving  their  guest  a  few  speci- 
mens of  it.  Grave  men  are  often  gross — and  they  were  both 
grave  as  ever  was  earthenware.  Such  wit  is  the  most  conta- 
gious of  any  ;  and  "  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur  "  then  ex- 
press "  Fancies "  that  are  anything  but  "  Chaste  and  Noble." 
Who  knows  but  that  they  were  driven  into  indecency  by  the  des- 
peration of  self-defence — took  refuge  in  repartee — and  fought 
the  gauger  with  his  own  rod  ?  That  Burns,  in  the  dead  silence 
that  ever  and  anon  occurred,  should  have  called  for  "  fresh  sup- 
plies of  liquor,"  is  nothing  extraordinary.  For  there  is  not  in 
nature  or  in  art  a  sadder  spectacle  than  an  empty  "bottle 
standing  in  the  centre  of  a  circle,  equidistant  from  three 
friends,  one  of  whom  had  returned  to  his  native  land  after  a 
yearning  absence  of  eight  years,  another  anonymous,  and  the 
third  the  author  of  Scotch  Drink  and  the  Earnest  Cry.  Josiah 
more  than  insinuates  that  he  himself  shy'd  the  bottle.  We  more 
than  doubt  it — we  believe  that  for  some  hours  he  turned  up  his 
little  finger  as  frequently  as  Burns.  He  did  right  to  desist  as 
soon  as  he  had  got  iiis  dose,  and  of  that  he  was  not  only  the  best 
but  the  only  judge ;  he  appears  to  have  been  sewn  up  "  when  it 
began  to  grow  late  ;"  Burns  was  sober  as  a  lark  "  about  three 
in  tlie  morning."  It  is  likely  enough  that  "  about  two  months 
af'ti-r.  Burns  was  better  supported  by  his  companions  at  a  similar 
reveV^ — so  much  better  indeed  in  every  way  that  the  revel  was 
dissimilar;  but  still  we  cling  to  our  first  belief,  that  the  two 
g^'ntlemcn  in  black  drank  as  much  as  could  have  been  rea- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  157 

sonably  expected  of  them — that  is,  as  much  as  they  could  hold — 
had  they  attempted  more,  there  is  no  saying  what  might  have 
been  the  consequences.  And  we  still  continue  to  think,  too,  that 
none  but  a  heartless  man,  or  a  man  whose  heart  had  been  putled 
up  like  a  bladder  with  vanity,  would  have  tagged  to  the  tail  of 
his  pitiful  tale  of  that  night,  that  cruel  statement  of  "  cold  with- 
out, and  inebriety  "within,"  w^hich  was  but  the  tittle-tattle  ofgos- 
sipping  tradition,  and  most  probably  a  lie. 

This  is  the  proper  way  to  treat  all  such  memorabilia — with  the 
ridicule  of  contempt  and  scorn.  Refute  falsehood  first,  and  then 
lash  the  fools  that  utter  it.  Much  of  the  obloquy  that  so  long 
rested  on  the  memory  of  our  great  National  Poet  originated  in 
frivolous  hearsays  of  his  life  and  conversation,  wiiich  in  every 
telling  lost  some  portion  of  whatever  truth  might  have  belonged 
to  them,  and  acquired  at  least  an  equal  portion  of  falsehood,  till 
they  became  unmixed  calumnies — many  of  them  of  the  blackest 
kind — got  into  print,  which  is  implicitly  believed  by  the  million — 
till  the  simple  story,  which,  as  first  told,  had  illustrated  some  in- 
teresting trait  of  liis  character  or  genius,  as  last  told,  redounded 
to  his  disgrace,  and  was  listened  to  by  the  totally  abstinent  with 
uplifted  eyes,  hands,  and  shoulders,  as  an  anecdote  of  the  dread- 
ful debaucheries  of  Robert  Burns. 

That  he  did  sometimes  associate,  while  in  Edinburgh,  with 
persons  not  altogether  worthy  of  him,  need  not  be  denied,  nor 
wondered  at,  for  it  was  inevitable.  He  was  not  for  ever  beset 
with  tlie  consciousness  of  his  own  supereminence.  Prudence 
he  did  not  despise,  and  he  has  said  some  strong  things  in  her 
praise  ;  but  she  was  not,  in  his  system  of  moralitv,  the  Queen 
of  Virtues.  His  genius,  so  far  from  separating  him  from  any 
portion  of  his  kind,  impelled  him  towards  humanity,  without 
fear  and  without  suspicion.  No  saint  or  prude  was  he  to  shun 
the  society  of  "Jolly  companions  every  one."  Though  never 
addicted  to  drinking,  he  had  often  set  the  table  in  a  roar  at 
Tarbolton,  Mauchline,  Kirkoswald,  Irvine  and  Ayr,  and  was  lie 
all  at  once  to  a])pear  in  the  character  of  dry  Quaker  in  Edin- 
burgh ?  Were  the  joys  that  circle  round  the  flowing  bowl  to 
be  interdicted  to  him  alone,  the  wittiest,  the  brightest,  the  mosi 
original,  and  the  most  eloquent  of  all  the  men  of  his  day  ?     At 


l.-i8  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Ellisland  we  know  for  certain,  that  his  domestic  life  was  tem- 
perate and  sober  ;  and  that  beyond  liis  own  doors,  his  conviviali- 
ties among  ''gentle  and  semple,"  though  not  lm frequent  were 
not  excessive,  and  left  his  character  without  any  of  those  deeper 
stains  with  which  it  has  been  since  said  to  have  been  sullied.  It 
is  for  ever  to  be  lamented  that  he  was  more  dissipated  at  Dum- 
fries— how  much  more — and  under  what  stronger  temptations, 
can  be  told  in  not  many  words.  But  every  glass  of  wine  '•  or 
stouter  cheer"  he  drank — like  mere  ordinary  men  too  fond  ot 
the  festive  hour — seems  to  have  been  set  down  against  him  as  a 
separate  sin  ;  and  the  world  of  fashion,  and  of  philosophy  too, 
we  fear,  both  of  which  used  him  rather  scurvily  at  last,  would 
not  be  satisfied  unless  Burns  could  be  made  out — a  drunkard  ! 
Had  he  not  been  such  a  wonderful  man  in  conversation,  he 
might  have  enjoyed  unhurt  the  fame  of  his  poetry.  But  what 
was  reading  his  poetry,  full  as  it  is  of  mirth  and  pathos,  to 
hearing  the  Poet !  When  all  were  desirous  of  the  company  of 
a  man  of  such  genius  and  such  dispositions,  was  it  in  human 
nature  to  be  always  judicious  in  the  selection  or  rejection  of 
associates?  His  deepest  and  best  feelings  he  for  the  most  part 
kept  sacred  for  communion  with  those  who  were  held  by  him  in 
honor  as  well  as  love.  But  kw  were  utterly  excluded  from  the 
cordiality  of  one  who,  in  the  largeness  of  his  heart,  could  sym- 
pathize with  all,  provided  he  could  but  bring  out  by  the  stroke 
of  tiie  keen-tempered  steel  of  his  own  nature,  some  latent  spark 
of  humanity  from  the  flint  of  theirs  ;  and  it  is  easy  to  see  with 
what  dangers  he  thus  must  have  been  surrounded,  when  his 
genius  and  humor,  his  mirth  and  glee,  his  fun  and  frolic,  and  all 
the  outrageous  merriment  of  his  exhilarated  or  maddened  imagi- 
nation came  to  be  considered  almost  as  common  property  bv  all 
who  chose  to  introduce  themselves  to  Robert  Burns,  and  tijouf^ht 
themselves  entitled  to  do  so  because  they  could  prove  they  had 
his  poems  by  heart.  They  sent  for  the  ganger,  and  the  ganger 
came.  A  prouder  man  breathed  not,  but  he  had  never  been 
subjected  to  the  ceremonial  of  manners,  the  rule  of  artificial 
life  ;  and  he  was  ready,  at  all  times,  to  grasp  the  hand  held  out 
in  friendship,  to  go  when  a   message  said  come,  for  he  knew 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  159 

that  his  "  low-roof'd  house"  was  honored  because  by  his  genius 
he  had  greatly  glorified  his  people. 

We  iiave  seen,  from  one  characteristic  instance,  how  shame- 
fully his  condescension  must  often  have  been  abused  ;  and  no 
doubt  but  that  sometimes  he  behaved  imprudently  in  such  par- 
ties, and  incurred  the  blame  of  intemperance.  Frequently 
must  he  liave  joined  them  with  a  heavy  heart  !  How  little  did 
many  not  among  the  worst  of  those  who  stupidly  stared  at  the 
"wondrous  guest"  understand  of  his  real  character!  How 
often  must  they  have  required  mirth  from  him  in  his  melan- 
choly, delight  in  his  despair  !  The  coarse  buffoon  ambitious  to 
show  off  before  the  author  of  "  Tarn  o'  Shunter"  and  ^' The 
Holy  Friar "' — how  could  it  enter  into  his  fat  heart  to  conceive, 
in  the  rnidst  of  his  own  roaring  ribaldry,  that  the  fire-eyed  son 
of  genius  was  a  Iiypochondriac,  sick  of  life  !  Why  such  a 
fellow  would  think  nothing  next  morning  of  impudently  telling 
his  cronies  that  on  the  whole  he  had  been  disappointed  in  the 
Poet.  Or  in  another  key,  forgetting  that  the  Poet  v\  ho  continued 
to  sit  late  at  a  tavern  table,  need  own  no  relationship  but  that 
of  time  and  place  with  the  proser  who  was  lying  resignedly 
under  it,  the  drunkard  boasts  all  over  the  city  of  the  glorious 
night  he  had  had  with  Burxs. 

But  of  the  multitudes  wiio  thus  sought  the  society  of  Burns, 
there  must  have  been  many  in  every  way  qualified  to  enjoy  it. 
His  fame  had  crossed  the  Tweed;  and  though  a  knowledsre  of 
his  poetry  could  not  then  have  been  prevalent  over  England,  he 
had  ardent  admirers  among  the  most  cultivated  classes,  before 
whose  eyes,  shadowed  in  a  language  but  imperfectly  under- 
stood, had  dawned  a  new  and  beautiful  world  of  rustic  life. 
Young  men  of  generous  birth,  and  among  such  lovers  of  genius 
some  doubtless  themselves  endowed  with  the  precious  gift, 
acquainted  with  the  clod-hoppers  of  their  own  country,  longed 
to  beiiold  the  prodigy  who  had  stalked  between  the  stilts  of  tlie 
plough  in  moods  of  tenderest  or  loftiest  inspiration  ;  and  it  is 
pleasing  to  think  that  the  poet  was  not  seldom  made  happy  by 
such  visitors — tliut  they  cari'icd  back  with  them  to  tinir  own 
noblest  land  a  still  deeper  imjjrcssion  of  the  exalted  worth  of  the 
genius  of  Caledonia.     Nor  did   the  gold  coin  of  the  genius  of 


IfiO  THE  GENIUS  AN  D 


Burns  sustain  any  depreciation  during  his  lifetime  in  liis  own 
country.  He  had  that  to  comfort  him — that  to  glory  in  till  the 
last;  and  in  his  sorest  poverty,  it  must  have  been  his  exceeding 
great  reward.  Ebenezer  Elliot  has  nobly  expressed  that  belief 
— and  coupled  with  it — as  we  have  often  done — the  best  vindi- 
cation of  Scotland — 

"  But  shall,  it  of  our  sires  be  told 

That  they  their  brother  poor  forsook? 
No!  FOR  they  gave  him  more  than  gold; 
They  read  the  Brave  Man's  Book." 

What  happens  during  their  life,  more  or  less,  to  all  eminent 
men,  happened  to  Burns.     Thinking  on  such  things,  one  some- 
times cannot  help  believing  that  man  hates  to  honor  man,  till 
the  power  in  which  miracles  have  been  wrought  is  extinguished 
or  withdrawn  ;  and  then,  when  jealousy,  envy,  and  all  unchari- 
tableness  of  necessity  cease,  we  confess  its  grandeur,  bow  down 
to  it,  and   worship  it.     But   who    were   they   who   in   his   own 
country  continued  most  steadfastly  to  honor  his  genius  and  liim- 
self,  all  through  what  have  been  called,  truly  in  some  respects, 
falsely   in  others,    his  dark  days  in   Dumfries,    and  on  to  his 
death  ?     Not  Lords  and  Earls,  not  lawyers  and  wits,  not  philo- 
sophers  and   doctors,   though    among    the   nobility   and  gentry, 
amonji  the  classes  of  leisure  and  of  learnins:,  he  had   friends 
who  wished   him  well,  and  were  not  indisposed   to  serve  him  ; 
not  the  male  generation  of  critics,  not  the  literary  prigs  epicene, 
not  of  decided  sex   the  blues   celestial,   thougli    many    periods 
were  rounded  among  them  upon  the  Ayrshire  ploughman  ;   but 
the  ISIen  of  his  own  Order,  with  their  wives   and  daughters — 
shepherds,  and  herdsmen,  and  ploughmen,  delvers  and  ditchers, 
hewers  of  wood   and   drawers   of    water,   soldiers   and   sailors, 
whether  regulars,  militia,  fencibles,  volunteers,  on  board   kinji's 
or  merchant's  ship  "  far,   far  at  sea"  or  dirt  gabbert — within  a 
few  yards  of  the  land  on  either  side  of  the  Clyde  or  the  Cart — 
the   Working  Peoi-le,   whatever  the  instruments  of  their  toil, 
tliey  patronized  Burns  then,  they  patronize  him  now,  they  would 
not   have    hurt  a   hair  of  his  liead,  they  will  not  hear  of  any 
dishonor  to  his  dust,  they  know  well  what  it  is  to  endure,  to 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  161 

yield,  to  enjoy,  and  to  suffer,  and  the  memory  of  their  own  bard 
will  he  hallowed  for  ever  amoni;  the  brotiierhood  like  a  relisjion. 
In  Dumfries — as  in  every  other  considerable  town  in  Scotland 
— and  we  miglit  add  England — it  was  then  customary,  you  know, 
with  the  respectable  inhabitants,  to  pass  a  convivial  hour  or  two 
of  an  evening  in  some  decent  tavern  or  other — and  Burns's  liowf 
was  the  Globe,  kept  by  honest  Mrs.  Hyslop,  who  had  a  sonsie 
sister,  "  Anna  wi'  the  gowden  locks,"  the  heroine  of  what  in  his 
fond  deceit  he  thought  was  the  best  of  all  his  songs.  The 
worthy  towns-folk  did  not  frequent  bar,  or  parlor,  or  club-room — 
at  least  they  did  not  think  they  did — from  a  desire  for  drink; 
though  doubtless  they  often  took  a  glass  more  than  they  intend- 
ed, nay,  sometimes  even  two ;  and  the  prevalence  of  sucii  a 
system  of  social  life,  for  it  was  no  less,  must  have  given  rise, 
witli  others  besides  the  predisposed,  to  very  hurtful  habits. 
They  met  to  expatiate  and  confer  on  state  affairs — to  read  the 
newspapers — to  talk  a  little  scandal — and  so  forth — and  the 
result  was,  we  have  been  told,  considerable  dissipation.  The 
system  was  not  excellent ;  dangerous  to  a  man  whose  face  was 
always  more  than  welcome  ;  without  whom  there  w-as  wanting 
the  evening  or  the  morning  star.  Burns  latterly  indulged  too 
much  in  such  compotations,  and  sometimes  drank  more  than  was 
good  for  him  ;  hut  not  a  man  noiv  alive  in  Dumfries  ever  saw  him 
intoxicated ;  and  the  survivors  all  unite  in  declaring  that  he 
cared  not  whether  the  stoup  were  full  or  empty,  so  that  there 
were  conversation — argumentative  or  declamatory,  narrative  or 
anecdotal,  grave  or  gay,  satirical  or  sermonic  ;  nor  would  any 
of  them  have  hoped  to  see  the  sun  rise  again  in  tliis  world,  had 
Burns  portentously  fallen  asleep.  They  had  nmch  better  been, 
one  and  all  of  tbem,  even  on  the  soberest  nights,  at  their  own 
firesides,  or  in  their  beds,  and  orgies  that  seemed  moderation 
itself  in  a  howf,  would  have  been  felt  outrageous  in  a  home.  But 
the  blame,  whatever  be  its  amount,  must  not  be  heaped  on  the  head 
of  Burns,  while  not  a  syllable  has  ever  been  said  of  the  same 
enormities  steadily  practised  for  a  series  of  years  by  the  digni- 
taries of  the  borough,  who  by  iliemselves  and  friends  were 
opined  to  have  been  from  youth  upwards  among  the  most  sober 
of  the  childron  of  Adam,      Does  anybody   suppose  tliat  Burns 


162  THE  GENIUS  AND 

would  have  addicted  himself  to  anv  meetings  considered  dis- 
reputable — or  that,  had  he  lived  now,  lie  would  have  frequented 
any  tavern,  except,  perhaps,  some  not  unfavored  one  in  the  airy 
realms  of  imagination,  and  built  among  the  clouds? 

Malicious  people  would  not  have  ventured  during  his  lifetime, 
in  underhand  and  undertoned  insinuations,  to  whisper  away 
Burns's  moral  character,  nor  would  certain  memorialists  have 
been  so  lavish  of  their  lamentations  and  regrets  over  his  evil 
habits,  had  not  his  political  principles  during  his  later  years  been 
such  as  to  render  him  with  many  an  object  of  suspicion  equiva- 
lent, in  troubled  times,  to  fear  and  hatred.  A  revolution  tiiat 
shook  the  foundations  on  which  so  many  old  evils  and  abuses 
rested,  and  promised  to  restore  to  millions  their  natural  liberties, 
and  by  that  restoration  to  benefit  all  mankind,  must  have  agitat- 
ed his  imagination  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  ordinary  minds  to  conceive,  who  nevertheless  thouffht  it  no 
presumption  on  their  part  to  decide  dogmatically  on  the  highest 
questions  in  political  science,  the  solution  of  which,  issuing  in 
terrible  practice,  had  upset  one  of  the  most  ancient,  and  as  it 
had  been  tliought,  one  of  the  firmest  of  thrones.  No  wonder  that 
with  his  eager  and  earnest  spirit  for  ever  on  his  lips,  he  came  to 
be  reputed  a  Democrat.  Dumfries  was  a  Tory  Town,  and 
could  not  tolerate  a  revolutionary — the  term  was  not  in  use  then 
— a  Radical  Exciseman.  And  to  say  the  truth,  the  idea  must 
have  been  not  a  little  alarming  to  weak  nerves,  of  Burns  as  a 
demagogue.  With  such  eyes  and  such  a  tongue  he  would  have 
proved  a  formidable  Man  of  the  People.  It  is  certain  that  he 
spoke  and  wrote  rashly  and  reprehensibly — and  deserved  a  cau- 
tion from  the  Board.  But  not  such  tyrannical  reproof;  and 
periiaps  it  was  about  as  absurd  in  the  Board  to  order  Burns  not 
to  think,  as  it  would  have  been  in  him  to  order  it  to  think,  for 
thinking  comes  of  nature,  and  not  of  institution,  and  'tis  about 
as  difficult  to  control  as  to  create  it.  He  defended  himself  bold- 
ly, and  like  a  man  conscious  of  harboring  in  his  bosom  no  evil 
wish  to  the  State.  "  In  my  defence  to  their  accusations  1  said, 
that  whatever  might  be  my  sentiments  of  republics,  ancient  or 
modern,  as  to  Britain  I  abjured  the  idea;  timt  a  constitution, 
which  in  its  original  principles,  experience  had  proved  to  be  in 


CI^ARACTER  OF  BURNS.  IC3 


every  way  fitted  for  our  happiness  in  society,  it  would  be  insanity 
to  sacrifice  to  an  untried  visionary  tlieory  ; — that  in  considera- 
tion of  my  being  situated  in  a  department,  however  humble,  im- 
mediately in  the  hands  of  people  in  power,  I  had  forborne  taking 
an  active  part,  eitiier  personally,  or  as  an  author,  in  the  pre- 
sent business  of  reform  ;  but  that  when  I  must  declare  my  sen- 
timents, I  would  say  there  existed  a  system  of  corruption  be- 
tween the  executive  power  and  the  representative  part  of  the 
legislature  which  boded  no  good  to  our  glorious  constitution, 
and  which  every  patriotic  Briton  must  wish  to  see  amended." 
His  biographers  have  had  difficulty  in  forming  their  opinion  as 
to  the  effect  on  Burns's  mind  of  the  expression  of  the  Board's 
sovereign  will  and  displeasure.  Scott,  without  due  considera- 
tion, thought  it  so  preyed  on  his  peace  as  to  render  him  desperate 
— and  has  said  "  that  from  the  moment  his  hopes  of  promotion 
were  utterly  blasted,  his  tendency  to  dissipation  hurried  him  pre- 
cipitately into  those  excesses  which  shortened  his  life."  Lock- 
hart,  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Findlater,  dissents  from  that  state- 
ment ;  Allan  Cuninghame  thinks  it  in  essentials  true,  and  that 
Burns's  letter  to  Erskine  of  Mar,  "covers  tiie  Board  of  Excise 
and  the  British  Government  of  that  day  with  eternal  shame." 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  effect  of  those  proceedings  on 
Burns's  mind,  it  is  certain  that  the  freedom  with  which  he 
gave  utterance  to  his  political  opinions  and  sentiments  seriously 
injured  him  in  the  estimation  of  multitudes  of  excellent  people 
who  tiiought  them  akin  to  doctrines  subversive  of  all  government 
but  that  of  the  mob.  Nor  till  lie  joined  the  Dumfries  Volunteers, 
and  as  their  Laureate  issued  his  popular  song,  that  flew  over  the 
land  like  wild-fire,  "Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat?"  was 
he  generally  regarded  as  a  loyal  subject.  For  two  or  three 
years  he  had  been  looked  on  with  evil  eyes,  and  spoken  of  in 
evil  whispers  by  too  many  of  the  good,  and  he  had  himself. in 
no  small  measure  to  blame  for  their  false  judgment  of  his  charac- 
ter.    Here  are  a  i^cw  of  his  lines  to  "  Tlie  Tree  of  Liberty  :" 


"  But  vicious  folk  aye  hate  to  see 

The  works  of  virtue  thrive,  man  ; 
The  courtly  vermin  bann'd  the  tree. 
And  grat  to  see  it  thrive,  man. 


164  THE  GLNIUS  AND 

King  Louis  thought  to  cut  it  down, 

When  it  was  unco  sma',  man  ; 
For  this  the  watchman  crack'd  his  crown. 

Cut  aff  his  head  and  a',  man. 

"  Let  Britain  boast  her  hardy  oak. 

Her  poplar  and  her  pine,  man, 
Auld  Britain  ance  could  crack  her  joke. 

And  o'er  her  neighbor  sliine,  man. 
But  seek  the  forest  round  and  round, 

And  soon  'twill  be  agreed,  man. 
That  sic  a  tree  cannot  be  found 

'Tvvixt  London  and  the  Tweed,  man. 

"  Wae  worth  the  loon  wha  woudna  eat 

Sic  wholesome  dainty  cheer,  man  ; 
I'd  sell  my  shoon  frae  aflT  my  feet 

To  taste  sic  fruit  I  swear,  man. 
Syne  let  us  pray,  auld  England  may 

Soon  plant  this  far-fam'd  tree,  man  ; 
And  blithe  we'll  sing,  and  hail  the  day 

That  gave  us  liberty,  man." 

Sf)  sunk  in  slavery  at  this  time  was  Scotland,  that  England  could 
not  sleep  in  her  bed  till  slie  had  set  her  sister  free — and  sent 
down  some  liberators  who  narrowly  escaped  getting  banged  by 
this  most  ungrateful  country.  Such  "  perilous  stufT"  as  the 
above  might  have  been  indited  by  Palmer,  Gerald,  or  Marga- 
rot — bow  all  unworthy  of  the  noble  Burns?  Of  all  men  then 
in  the  world,  the  author  of  "  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  "  was 
by  nature  the  least  of  a  Jacobin.  We  cannot  help  thinking  that, 
like  Byron,  he  loved  at  times  to  astonish  dull  people  by  daring 
thmgs,  to  see  how  they  looked  witii  their  hair  on  end  ;  and  dull 
people — who  are  not  seldom  malignant — taking  him  at  his  word, 
had  their  revenge  in  charging  him  with  all  manner  of  profligacy, 
and  fabricating  vile  stories  to  bis  disgrace  :  there  being  notbinir 
too  gross  for  the  swallow  of  political  rancor. 

It  is  proved  by  many  very  strong  expressions  in  his  corre- 
spondence— that  the  reproof  he  received  from  the  Board  of  E.\- 
cise  sori'ly  troubled  him  ;  and  no  doubt  it  had  an  evil  influence 
on  public  opinion  that  did  not  subside  till  it  was  feared  be  was 
dying,  and  that  ceased  for  a  time  only  with  his  death.     We  have 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  165 


expressed  our  indignation — our  contempt  of  that  tyrannical 
treatment  ;  and  have  not  withheld  our  respect — our  admiration 
from  the  characteristic  manliness  with  which  he  repelled  the  ac- 
cusations some  insidious  enemies  had  secretly  sent  in  to  the 
quarter  where  they  knew  fatal  injury  might  be  done  to  all  his 
prospects  in  life.  But  was  it  possible  that  his  most  unguarded, 
rash,  and  we  do  not  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  say,  blameable  ex- 
pression of  political  opinions  adverse  to  those  maintained  by  all 
men  friendly  to  the  government,  could  be  permitted  to  pass 
without  notice  ?  He  had  no  right  to  encourage  what  the  gov- 
ernment sought  to  put  down,  while  he  was  "  their  servant  in 
a  very  humble  department ;"  and  though  he  successfully  repelled 
the  slanders  of  the  despicable  creatures  who  strove  to  destroy 
him,  even  in  his  high-spirited  letter  to  Erskine  there  is  enough 
to  show  that  he  had  entered  into  such  an  expostulation  with  the 
Board  as  must  have  excited  strong  displeasure  and  disapproval, 
which  no  person  of  sense,  looking  back  on  those  most  dangerous 
times,  can  either  wonder  at  or  blame.  He  says  in  his  defence 
before  the  Board,  "  I  stated  that,  where  I  must  declare  my  sen- 
timents, 1  would  say  there  existed  a  system  of  corruption  be- 
tween the  executive  power  and  the  representative  part  of  the 
legislature,  which  boded  no  good  to  our  glorious  constitution, 
and  which  every  patriotic  Briton  must  wish  to  see  amended." 
From  a  person  in  his  situation  even  such  a  declaration  was  not 
prudent,  and  prudence  was  a  duty  ;  but  it  is  manifest  from  what 
lie  adds  for  Erskine's  own  ear,  that  something  more  lay  con- 
cealed in  those  generalities  than  the  mere  words  seem  to  imply. 
"I  have  three  sons,  who  I  see  already  have  brought  into  tiie 
world  souls  ill  qualified  to  inhabit  the  bodies  of  Slaves.  Can 
I  look  tamely  on,  and  see  any  machinations  to  wrest  from  them 
the  birthright  of  my  boys — the  little  independent  Britons,  in 
whose  veins  runs  my  blood  ?  No  ;  I  will  not,  should  my  heart's 
blood  stream  around  my  attempt  to  defend  it.  Does  any  man 
tell  me,  tiiat  my  poor  efforts  can  be  of  no  service,  and  that  it 
does  not  belong  to  my  humble  station  to  meddle  with  tlie  con- 
cerns  of  a  nation  ?"  Riixiit  or  w  rons; — and  we  think  tiiey  were 
riirht — the  government  of  the  country  had  resolved  to  uphold 
principles,  to  which  the   man  w  lio  could   not   refrain    from   thus 


166  THE  GENIUS  AND 

fiercely  declaring  himself,  at  the  very  time  all  that  was  dearest 
to  liim  was  in  peril,  could  not  but  be  held  hostile  ;  and  so  far 
from  its  being  their  duty  to  overlook  such  opinions,  because  tliey 
were  the  opinions  of  Burns,  it  was  just  because  they  were  the 
opinions  of  Burns  that  it  was  their  duty  to  restrain  and  reprove 
them.  He  continued  too  long  after  this  to  be  by  far  too  out- 
spoken— as  we  have  seen  ;  but  tiiat  his  Scottish  soul  had  in 
augiit  become  Frenchified,  we  never  shall  believe,  but  vvhile  we 
live  shall  attribute  the  obstinacy  with  which  he  persisted  to 
sing  and  say  the  praises  of  that  people,  after  they  had  murdered 
their  King  and  their  Queen,  and  had  been  guilty  of  all  enormi- 
ties, in  a  great  measure  to  a  haughtiness  that  could  not  brook 
to  retract  opinions  he  had  offensively  declared  before  the  faces 
of  many  whom  not  without  reason  he  despised — to  a  horror  of 
the  idea  of  any  sacrifice  of  that  independent  spirit  which  was 
the  very  life  of  his  life.  Burns  had  been  insulted  by  those  who 
were  at  once  his  superiors  and  his  inferiors,  and  shall  Burns 
truckle  to  "  tlie  powers  that  be  ?"  At  any  bidding  but  that  of 
his  own  conviction  swerve  a  hair's-breadth  from  his  political 
creed  ?  No  :  not  even  though  his  reason  had  told  him  that  some 
of  its  articles  were  based  in  delusion,  and  if  carried  into  prac- 
tice among  his  own  countrymen,  pursuant  to  the  plots  of  traitors, 
who  were  indeed  aliens  in  soul  to  the  land  he  loved,  would  have 
led  to  the  destruction  of  tliat  liberty  for  whicli  he,  by  the  side 
or  at  the  head  of  his  cottage  compatriots,  would  have  gladly 
died. 

The  evil  consequences  of  all  this  to  Burns  were  worse  than 
you  may  have  imagined,  for  over  and  above  the  lies  springing  up 
like  puddock-stools  from  doincsiic  iniddcns,  an  ephemeral  brood 
indeed,  but  by  succession  perennial,  and  tiiat  even  now  when  vou 
grasp  them  in  your  hand,  spatter  vileness  in  your  eyes,  like  so 
many  devil's  snuff-boxes — think  how  injurious  to  the  happiness 
of  such  a  soul  as  his,  to  all  its  natural  habitudes,  must  have  l)een 
the  feuds  carried  on  all  around  iiiin,  and  in  which  he  with  his 
commanding  powers  too  largely  mingled,  between  political  pai'- 
ties  in  a  provincial  town,  contending  as  they  thought,  the  one  for 
hearths  and  altars,  the  other  for  regeneration  of  those  principles, 
decayed  or  deaJ,  which  alone  make  hearths  and  altars  sacred, 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  If>7 

and  their  defence  worth  the  tears  and  the  blood  of  brave  men 
u  ho  would  fain  be  free.  His  sympathy  was  "  wide  and  general 
as  the  casing  air;"  and  not  without  violence  could  it  be  con- 
tracted "within  the  circle  none  dared  tread  but  they,"  who 
thought  William  Pitt  the  reproach,  and  Charles  Fox  the  Paragon 
of  Animals.  Within  that  circle  he  met  with  many  good  men, 
the  Herons,  Millers,  Riddells,  Maxwells,  Symes,  and  so  forth; 
within  it  too  he  forgathered  with  many  "a  fool  and  something 
more."  Now  up  to  "the  golden  exhalation  of  the  dawn  "  of  his 
gaugership.  Burns  had  been  a  Tory,  and  he  heard  in  "  the  whis- 
per of  a  faction  "  a  word  unpleasing  to  a  WMiiggish  ear,  turncoat. 
The  charge  was  false,  and  he  disdained  it  ;  but  disdain  in  eyes 
that  when  kindled  up  burned  like  carriage  lamps  in  a  dark  night, 
frightened  the  whispering  faction  into  such  animosit)-,  that  a  more 
than  usual  sumph  produced  an  avenging  epigram  upon  him  and 
two  other  traitors,  in  which  the  artist  committed  a  mistake  of 
workmanship  no  subsequent  care  could  rectify  :  instead  of  hit- 
ting the  riglit  nail  on  the  head,  why  he  hit  the  wrong  nail  on  the 
point,  so  no  wooden  mallet  could  drive  it  home.  From  how 
much  social  pleasure  must  not  Burns  have  thus  been  wilfully 
self-debarred  !  From  how  many  happy  friendships  !  By  nature 
he  was  not  vindictive,  yet  occasionally  he  seemed  to  be  so,  visit- 
ing slight  offence  with  severe  punishment,  sometimes  imagining 
offence  when  there  was  none,  and  in  a  kw  instances,  we  fear, 
satirizing  in  savage  verses  not  only  the  innocent,  but  the  virtu- 
ous ;  the  very  beings  whom,  had  he  but  known  them  as  he  might, 
he  would  have  loved  and  revered — celebrated  them  livin<T  or 
dead  in  odes,  elegies,  and  hymns — thereby  doing  holy  service  to 
goodness  in  holding  up  shining  examples  to  jill  who  longed  to  do 
well.  Most  of  his  intolerant  scorn  of  high  rank  had  the  same 
origin — not  ir  liis  own  nature,  which  was  noble,  but  in  prejudi- 
ces mus  superinduced  upon  it  which  in  their  virulence  were 
mean — though  his  genius  could  clothe  them  in  magnificent  dic- 
tion, and  so  justify  them  to  the  proud  poet's  heart. 

It  is  seldom  indeed  that  Lockhart  misses  the  murk  ;  but  in  one 
instance — an  anecdote — where  it  is  intended  to  prescnr  the  pa- 
thetic, or.r  eyes  perceive  but  the  picturesque — we  allude  to  the 
tale  told  him  by  Davie  Maccidloch,  son  of  the  Laird  of  Ardwall. 

15 


16S  THE  GENIUS  AND 

"  Pie  told  me  that  he  was  seldom  more  grieved  than  when, 
riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer's  even  ng  to  attend  a 
county  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walking  alone  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  principal  street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  part  was  gay 
with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  all  drawn  to- 
getlier  for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom  appeared 
willing  to  recognize  him.  The  horseman  dismounted  and  join- 
ed Burns,  who  on  his  proposing  to  him  to  cross  the  street,  said, 
'  Nay,  my  young  friend,  that  is  all  ove''  now,'  and  quoted,  after 
a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizell  Baillie's  pathetic  ballad 
beginning,  '  The  bonnet  stood  ance  sae  fair  on  his  brow,'  and 
ending  '  And  were  na  my  heart  light  I  icad  die.''  It  was  little  in 
Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on  certain  subjects  escape  in 
this  fashion.  He,  immediately  after  citing  these  verses,  assumed 
the  sprightliness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner;  and  taking  his 
young  friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably 
until  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived,  with  a  bowl  of  his  usual  pota- 
tion, and  bonnie  Jean's  singing  of  some  verses  which  he  had 
recently  composed."  'Tis  a  pretty  picture  in  the  style  of  Wat- 
teau.  "  The  opposite  part  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gen- 
tlemen and  ladies,  all  drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the 
night."  What  were  they  about,  and  where  were  they  going? 
Were  they  as  yet  in  their  ordinary  clothes,  colts  and  fillies 
alike,  taking  their  exercise  preparatory  to  the  country-dances  of 
some  thirty  or  forty  couple,  that  in  those  days  used  to  try  the 
wind  of  both  sexes?  If  so,  they  might  have  chosen  better 
training-ground  along  the  banks  of  the  Nith.  Were  they  all  in 
full  fig,  the  females  with  feathers  on  their  heads,  the  males  with 
chapoaux  has — "  stepping  westward  "  arm  in  arm,  in  successive 
groups,  to  the  Assembly-room  ?  In  whichever  of  these  two 
pleasant  predicaments  they  were  placed,  it  showed  rare  perspi- 
cacity in  Daintie  Davie  to  discern  that  not  one  of  them  appeared 
willing  to  recognize  Burns — more  especially  as  he  was  walking 
on  the  other  and  shady  side  of  the  street,  and  Davie  on  horse- 
back. By  what  secret  signs  did  the  fair  free-masons — for  such 
there  be — express  to  tlicir  mounted  brother  their  unwillingness 
to  recognize  from  the  sunshine  of  their  i)romenade,  the  ganger 
walking  alone  in  thi-  shade  of  his?     Was  flirtation  at  so  low  an 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  169 


ebb  in  Dumfriesshire,  that  the  flower  of  her  beaux  and  belles, 
"  in  successive  groups,  drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the 
night,"  could  find  eyes  for  a  disagreeable  object  so  many  yards 
of  causeway  remote  ?  And  if  Burns  observed  that  they  gave 
him  the  cold  shoulder — cut  him  across  ihe  street — on  what  re- 
condite principle  of  conduct  did  he  continue  to  walk  there,  in 
place  of  stalking  off  with  a  frown  to  his  Howf?  And  is  it  high 
Galloway  to  propose  to  a  friend  to  cross  the  street  to  do  the  civil 
"  to  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  not  one  of  whom 
had  appeared  willing  to  recognize  him?"  However  it  was  gal- 
lant under  such  discouragement  to  patronize  the  ganger  ;  and 
we  trust  that  the  "  wicked  wee  bowl,"  while  it  detained  from, 
and  disinclined  to,  did  not  incapacitate  for  the  Ball. 

But  whence  all  those  expressions  so  frequent  in  his  corres- 
pondence, and  not  rare  in  his  poetry,  of  self-reproach  and  rueful 
remorse  ?  From  a  source  that  lay  deeper  than  our  eyes  can 
reach.  We  know  his  worst  sins,  but  cannot  know  his  sorrows. 
The  war  between  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  often  raged  in  his 
nature — as  in  that  of  the  best  of  beings  who  are  made — and  no 
Christian,  without  humblest  self-abasement,  will  ever  read  his 
Confessions. 

"  Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 
Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool. 

Lei  him  draw  near  ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 
And  drap  a  tear. 

"  Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

0,  pass  not  by  ! 
But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here,  heave  a  sigh 

"  Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer. 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career, 
Wild  as  the  wave ; 


170  THE  GENIUS  AND 


Here  pause — and,  thro'  the  starting  tear, 
.  Survey  this  grave. 

"The  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  kno-y. 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name  ! 

"  Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self-control. 

Is  wisdom's  root." 

A  Bard's  Epitaph  !  Such  his  character  drawn  by  himself  in 
deepest  despondency — in  distraction — in  despair  cahned  while 
he  was  composing  it  by  the  tranquillizing  power  that  ever 
accompanies  the  action  of  genius.  And  shall  we  judge  him  as 
severely  as  he  judged  himself,  and  think  worse  of  him  than  of 
common  men,  because  he  has  immortalized  his  frailties  in  his 
contrition  ?  The  sins  of  common  men  are  not  remembered  in 
their  epitaphs.  Silence  is  a  privilege  of  the  grave  few  seek  to 
disturb.  If  there  must  be  no  euloorium,  our  name  and  aije  suf- 
fice  for  that  stone — and  whatever  may  have  been  thought  of  us, 
there  are  some  to  drop  a  tear  on  our  "  forlorn  hie  jacet."'  Burns 
wrote  those  lines  in  the  very  prime  of  youthful  manhood.  You 
know  what  produced  them — his  miserable  attachment  to  her 
who  became  his  wife.  He  was  then  indeed  most  miserable — 
afterwards  most  happy  ;  he  cared  not  then  though  he  should  die 
— all  his  other  offences  rose  against  him  in  that  agony;  and 
how  humbly  he  speaks  of  his  high  endowments,  under  a  sense 
of  the  sins  by  which  they  had  been  debased  !  He  repented,  and 
sinned  again  and  again  ;  for  his  repentance — though  sincere — 
was  not  permanent ;  yet  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  accepted 
at  last  ?  '•  Ovvre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,  and  drap  a  tear," 
is  an  injunction  that  has  been  obeyed  by  many  a  pitying  heart. 
Yet  a  little  while,  and  his  Jean  buried  him  in  such  a  grave.  A 
few  years  more,  and  a  mausoleum  was  erected  by  the  nation  for 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  171 

his  honored   dust.     Now  husband  and  wife  lie  side  by  side — 
"in  hopes  of  a  joyful  resurrection." 

Burns  belonged  to  that  order  of  prevailing  poets,  with  whom 
"  all  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights  "  possess  not  that  entire 
satisfaction  nature  intends,  till  they  effuse  themselves  abroad, 
for  sake  of  the  sympathy  that  binds  them,  even  in  uttermost 
solitude,  to  the  brotherhood  of  man.  No  secrets  have  they  that 
words  can  reveal.  They  desire  that  the  whole  race  shall  see 
their  very  souls — shall  hear  the  very  beatings  of  their  hearts. 
Thus  they  hope  to  live  for  ever  in  kindred  bosoms.  They  feel 
that  a  greater  power  is  given  them  in  their  miseries — lor  what 
miseries  has  any  man  ever  harbored  in  the  recesses  of  his  spirit, 
that  he  has  not  shared,  and  will  share,  with  "numbers  without 
number  numberless"  till  the  Judgment  Day  ! 

Who  reads  unmoved  such  sentences  as  these  ?  "  The  fates 
and  characters  of  the  rhyming  tribe  often  employ  my  thoughts 
when  I  am  disposed  to  be  melancholy.  There  is  not,  among  all 
the  martyrologies  that  ever  were  penned,  so  woeful  a  narrative 
as  the  lives  of  the  Poets.  In  the  comparative  view  of  wretches, 
the  question  is  not  what  they  are  doomed  to  sutler,  but  how 
thev  are  formed  to  bear  !"  Long  before  the  light  of  heaven 
had  ever  been  darkened  or  obscured  in  his  conscience  by  evil 
thoughts  or  evil  deeds,  wiien  the  bold  bright  boy,  with  his  thick 
black  clustering  hair  ennobling  his  ample  forehead,  was  slaving 
for  his  parents'  sakes — Robert  used  often  to  lie  by  Gilbert's 
side  all  night  long  witliout  ever  closing  an  eye  in  sleep  ;  for  tiiat 
large  heart  of  his,  that  loved  all  his  eyes  looked  upon  of  na- 
ture's works  living  or  dead,  perfect  as  was  its  mechanism  for 
the  play  of  all  lofty  passions,  would  get  suddenly  disarranged, 
as  if  approached  the  very  hour  of  death.  Who  will  say  that 
many  more  years  were  likely  to  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  one  so 
framed,  had  he  all  life  long  drunk,  as  in  youtii,  but  of  the 
well-water — "  laid  down  with  the  dove,  and  risen  with  the 
lark !"  If  excesses  in  which  there  was  vice  and  therefore 
blame,  did  injure  his  health,  how  far  more  those  other  excesses 
in  which  there  was  so  much  virtue,  and  on  which  there  should 
be  praise  for  ever!  Over-anxious,  over-working  hours  beneath 
the  mid-day  sun,  and  sometimes  to  save  a  scanty  crop  beneath 

l.v» 


172  THE  GENIUS  AND 


the  midnight  moon,  to  which   he  looked   up  without  knowing  it 
with  a  poet's  eyes,  as  he  kept  forking  the  saeaves  on   the   high 
laden  cart   tiiat   "  Hesperus,  who  led   the  starry  host  "  behold 
crashing  into  the  barn-yard  among  shouts  of  "  Harvest  Home." 
It  has  been  thought  that  there  are  not  a  few  prominent  points 
of  character  common   to   Burns   and   Byron  ;    and   though    no 
fornial  comparison  between  them  has  been  drawn  that  we  know 
of,  nor  would  it  be  worth  while  attempting  it,  as  not  much  would 
come  of  it,  we  suspect,  without  violent  stretching  and  bending 
of  materials,  and  that  free  play  of  fancy  which  makes  no  bones 
of  facts,  still  there  is  this  resemblance,  that  they  both  give  unre- 
served exj)ositions  of  their  most  secret  feelings,  undeterred   by 
any  fear  of  offending  others,  or  of  bringing  censure  on  them- 
selves by  such  revelations  of  the  inner  man.     Byron  as  a  moral 
being  was  below  Burns ;   and  there  is  loo  often  much  atfecta- 
tion  and  insincerity  in  his  Confessions.     "  Fare  thee  well,  and 
if  for  ever,  still    for  ever  fare   thee  well,"   is  not  elegiac,  but 
satirical ;  a   complaint  in  which   the   bitlerness  is  not  of  grief, 
but  of  gall ;   how  unlike  "  The  Lament  on  the  unfortunate  issue 
of  a  Friend's  Amour"  overflowing  with  the  expression  of  every 
passion  cognate  with  love's  despair  !     Do  not  be  startled  by  our 
asking  you  to  think    for   a   little  while  of  Robert  Burns  along 
with — Samuel  Johnson.     Listen  to  him,  and  you  hoar  as  wise 
and  good  a  man  as  earth  ever  saw  for  ever  reproaching  him.self 
with  his  wickedness  ;   "  from  almost  the  earliest  time  he  could 
remember  he  had  been  forming  schemes  for  a  better  life."     Se- 
lect from  his  notes,  prayers,  and  diaries,  and  from  the  authentic 
records  of  his  oral  discourse,  all   acknowledgments   of  his  evil 
thouglits,   practices,  and   habits ;    all   charges   brought   against 
him   by  conscience,  of  sins  of  omission  and   commission  ;    all 
declarations,   exclamations,   and   interjections   of  agonizing   re- 
morse and  gloomy  despair — from  them  write  his  character  in  his 
epitaph — and  look    there   on   the  Christian  Sage  !     God   forbid  ! 
that  saving  truths  should  be   so   changed  into   destroying  false- 
hoods.    Slotiiful,  selfish,  sensual,   envious,    uncharitable,    undu- 
tiful  to  his  parents,  thoughtless  of  Him  who  died  to  save  sinners, 
and   living  without    God   in   the    world  ; — That   is  the  wretched 
being  named  Samuel   Johnson — in   the  eyes  of  his  idolatrous 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  173 

countrymen  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels — in  his  own  a 
worm  !  Slothful  !  yet  how  various  his  knowledge  !  acquired 
bv  fits  and  snatches — book  in  hand,  and  poring  as  if  nearly 
sand-blind — yel  with  eyes  in  their  own  range  of  vision,  keen  as 
the  lynx's  or  the  eagle's — on  pages  no  better  than  blanks  to 
common  minds,  to  his  hieroglypfiical  of  wisest  secrets — or  in 
long  assiduity  of  continuous  studies,  of  which  a  month  to  him 
availed  more  than  to  you  or  us  a  year — or  all  we  have  had  of 
life.  Selfish  !  with  obscure  people,  about  whom  nobody  cared, 
provided  for  out  of  his  slender  means  within  doors,  paupers 
though  they  thought  it-  not,  and  though  meanly  endowed  by 
nature  as  by  fortune,  admitted  into  the  friendship  of  a  Sage 
simple  as  a  child — out  of  doors,  pensioners  waiting  for  him  at 
the  corners  of  streets,  of  whom  he  knew  little,  but  that  they 
were  hungry  and  wanted  bread,  and  probably  had  been  brought 
by  sin  to  sorrow.  Sensual  !  Because  his  big  body,  getting  old, 
"  needed  repairs,"  and  because  though  "  Rasselas  Prince  of 
Abyssinia"  had  been  written  on  an  empty  stomach,  which 
happened  when  he  was  comparatively  young  and  could  not  help 
it,  now  that  lie  had  reached  his  grand  climacteric,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  show  not  to  the  whole  world,  but  to  large  parties,  that 
all  the  fat  of  the  earth  was  not  meant  for  the  mouths  of  block- 
heads. Envious  !  of  David  Garrick  ?  Poh  !  poh  !  Pshaw  ! 
pshaw  !  Uncharitable  ?  We  have  disposed  of  that  clause  of 
the  verse  in  our  commentary  on  "selfish."  Undutiful  to  his 
parents!  He  did  all  man  could  to  support  his  mother ;  and 
having  once  disobliged  liis  father  by  sulkily  refusing  to  assist  at 
l)is  book-stall,  half  a  century  afterwards,  more  or  less,  when  at 
the  head  of  English  literature,  and  the  friend  of  Burke  and 
Beauclerk,  he  stood  bareheaded  for  an  hour  in  the  rain  on  the 
site  of  said  book-stall,  in  the  market  place  of  LitciifieM,  in 
penance  for  that  great  sin.  As  to  the  last  two  charges  in  the 
indictment — if  he  was  not  a  Christian,  who  can  hope  for  salva- 
tion in  the  Cross?  If  his  life  was  that  of  an  atheist,  who  of 
woman  bom  ever  walked  with  God  ?  Yet  it  is  true  lie  was  a 
great  sinner.  "  If  we  say  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  our. 
selves,  and  the  truth  is  not  in   us  ;   but  if  we  confess  our  sins, 


174  THE  GENIUS  AND 


he  is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive  us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us 
from  all  unrighteousness." 

Burns  died  in  his  thirty-eighth  year.  At  that  age  what  had 
Johnson  done  to  be  for  ever  remembered  ?  He  had  written  Irene, 
London,  and  the  Life  of  Savage.  Of  Irene  the  world  makes 
little  account — it  contains  many  just  and  noble  sentiments —but 
it  is  a  Tragedy  without  tears.  The  Life  is  an  eloquent  lie,  told 
in  the  delusion  of  a  friendship  sealed  by  participated  sorrows. 
London  is  a  satire  of  the  true  moral  vein — more  sincerely  indig- 
nant with  the  vices  it  withers  tiian  its  prototype  in  Juvenal — 
with  all  the  vigor,  without  any  of  the  coarseness  of  Dryden — 
with  "tlie  pointed  propriety  of  Pope,"  and  versification  almost 
as  musical  as  his,  while  not  so  monotonous — an  immortal  strain. 
But  had  he  died  in  1747,  how  slight  had  been  our  knowledge — - 
our  interest  how  dull — in  the  "Life  and  Writings  of  Samuel 
Johnson  !"  How  slight  our  knowledge  !  We  should  never  have 
known  that  in  cliildhood  he  showed  symptoms  "of  that  jealous 
independence  of  spirit  and  impetuosity  of  temper  which  never 
forsook  him  " — as  Burns  in  the  same  season  had  showed  that 
"stubborn  sturdy  something  in  his  disposition"  which  was  there 
to  the  last ; — That  he  displayed  then  "  that  power  of  memory  for 
which  he  was  all  his  life  eminent  to  a  degree  almost  incredi- 
ble " — as  Burns  possessed  that  faculty — so  thought  Murdoch — 
in  more  strength  than  imagination  ; — That  he  never  joined  the 
other  boys  in  their  ordinary  diversions  "  but  would  wander  away 
into  the  fields  talking  to  iiimself " — like  Burns  walking  miles 
"to  pay  his  respects  to  the  Leglen  wood  ;" — That  when  a  boy 
he  was  immoderately  fond  of  reading  romances  of  chivalry — 
as  Burns  was  of  Blind  Harry  ; — That  he  fell  into  "an  inatten- 
tion to  religion  or  an  indifference  about  it  in  his  ninth  year,"  and 
after  his  fourteenth  "  became  a  sort  of  lax  talker  against  re- 
ligion, for  he  did  not  mucii  think  about  it,  and  this  lasted  till  he 
went  to  Oxford,  where  it  would  not  be  suffered  " — ^just  as  tiie 
child  Burns  was  remarkable  fur  an  "  enthusiastic  idiot  piety," 
and  had  pleasure  during  some  years  of  his  youth  in  puzzling  his 
companions  on  points  in  divinity,  till  he  saw  his  folly,  and  with- 
out getting  his  mouth  shut,  was  mute  ; — That  on  iiis  return  home 
from  Stourbridge  school  in  his  eighteenth  year  "  he  had  no  set- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  173 


tied  plan  of  life,  nor  looked  forward  at  all,  but  merely  lived  from 
day  to  day" — like  Burns  who,  when  a  year  or  two  older  in  his 
perplexity,  writes  to  his  father  that  he  knows  not  wliat  to  do,  and 
is  sick  of  life  ; — That  his  love  of  literature  was  excited  by  acci- 
dentally finding  a  folio  of  Petrarch — as  Burns's  love  of  poetry 
was  by  an  octavo  Shenstone ; — That  he  thereon  became  a  glut- 
tonous  book-devourer — as  Burns  did — "  no  book  being  so  volu- 
minous as  to  slacken  his  industry,  or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp 
his  researches;" — That  in  his  twentieth  year  he  felt  himself 
"overwhelmed  with  a  horrible  hypochondria,  wiih  perpetual  irri- 
tation, fretfulness,'and  impatience,  and  with  a  dejection,  gloom, 
and  despair  which  rendered  existence  misery '"' — as  Burns  tells 
us  he  was  afflicted — even  earlier — and  to  the  last — "  with  a  con- 
stitutional melancholy  or  hypochondriasm  that  made  me  fly  to 
solitude  " — with  horrid  flutterings  and  stoppages  of  the  heart  that 
often  almost  choked  him,  so  that  he  had  to  fall  out  of  bed  into  a 
tub  of  water  to  allay  the  anguish  ; — That  he  was  at  Pembroke 
College  '•  caressed  and  loved  by  all  about  him  as  a  gay  and  fro- 
licsome   fellow" — while  "ah!  Sir,  I   was  mad  and  violent — it 
was  bitterness  which  they  mistook   for   frolic  " — ^just  as   Burns 
was  thought  to  be  "  with  liis  strong  appetite  for  sociality  as  well 
from  native  hilarity  as  from  a  pride  of  observation  and  remark," 
thoufh  when  left  alone  desponding  and  distracted  ; — That  he  was 
generally  seen  lounging  at  the  College  gate,  with  a  circle  of  stu- 
dents round  him,  whom  he  was  entertaining  with  wit,  and  keep- 
in"-   from   their   studies,  if  not  spiriting   them   up   to   rebellion 
against  the  College  discipline,  which  in  his  maturer  years  he  so 
much  extolled  " — as  Burns  was  sometimes  seen  at  the  door  of  a 
Public  ridiculing  the  candles  of  the  Auld  Light  and  even  spirit- 
iuCT  the  callants  against  the  Kirk  itself,  which  we  trust  he  looked 
on  more  kindly  in  future  years; — That  he  had  to  quit  college 
on  his  father's  bankruptcy  soon  followed  by  death,  as  Burns  in 
similar  circumstances  had  to  quit  Lochlea; — "That  in  the  forlorn 
state  of  his  circumsiances,  Mtat.  23,  he  accepted  of  an  offer  to  be 
employed  as  usher  in  the  school  of  Market-Bosworth,"  where  he 
was  miserable — just  as  Burns  was  at  the  same  ago,  not  indeed 
flo<rain<T  bovs  but  llailinc;  barns,  "a  poor  insignificant  devil,  un- 
noticed  and  unknown,  and  stalking  up  and  down  fairs  and  mar- 


17G  THE  GENIUS  AND 


kets: — That  soon  after  "he  published  proposals  for  printing  by 
subscription  the  Latin   Poems  of  Politian  at  two  shillings  and 
sixpence,  but  that  there  were  not  subscribers  enough  to  secure  a 
:>uificient  sale,  so  the  work  never  appeared,  and  probably  never 
was  executed  " — as  Burns  soon  after  issued  proposals  for  print- 
ing by  subscription  on  terms   rather   higher  "  among  others  the 
Ordination,  Scotch  Drink,  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  and  an 
Address  to  the  Deil,"  which  volume  ere  long  was  published  ac- 
cordingly and  had  a  great  sale; — That  he   had,  "from  early 
youth,  been  sensible  to  the  influence  of  female  charms,  and  when 
at  Stourbridge  school  was  much  enamored  of  Olivia  Lloyd,  a 
young  Quaker,  to  whom  he  wrote  a  copy  of  verses  " — just  as 
Burns  was — and  did — in  the  case  of  Margaret  Tliomson,  in  the 
kale-yard  at  Kirkoswald,  and  of  many  others  ; — That  his  "  juve- 
nile attachments  to  the  fair  sex  were   however  very  transient, 
and  it  is  certain  that  he  formed  no  criminal  connection  what- 
ever ;   Mr.  Hector,  who  lived  with  him  in  the  utmost  intimacy 
and  social  freedom,  having  assured  me  that  even  at  that  ardent 
season  his  conduct  was  strictly  virtuous  in  that  respect" — ^just 
so  with    Burns  who, fell   in  love  wiiii  every  lass  he  saw  "come 
wading  barefoot  all  alane,"  while  his  brother  Gilbert  gives  us 
the  same  assurance  of  his  continence  in  all  his  youthful  loves  :  — 
That  "in  a  man  whom  religious  education  has  saved  from  licen- 
tious indulgences,  the   passion  of  love  when  once  it  has  seized 
him  is  exceeding  strong,  and  this  was  experienced  by  Johnson 
when  he  became  the  fervent  admirer  of  Mrs.  Porter  after  iier 
first  husband's  death  " — as  it  was  unfortunately  too  much  the 
case  with  Burns,  though  he  did  not  marry  a  widow  double  his 
own  asie — but  one  who  was  a  Maid  till  she  met  Rob  Mossjfiel — 
and  some  six  years  younger  than  himself; — That  unable  to  find 
subsistence  in  iiis  native  j)lace,  or  any  where  else,  he  was  driven 
by  want  to  try  his  fortune  in  London,  "  the  great  field  of  genius 
and  exertion,  where  talents  of  every  kind  have  the  fullest  scope, 
and  the  liighost  encouragement,"  on  his  way  thither,  "  riding  and 
tying  "  with  Davie   Garriek — just   as   Burns  was   impelled   to 
make  an  rxperiment  on  Edinburgh,  journeying  thither  on  foot, 
but  without  any  companion  in  his  adventure  ; — that  after  getting 
on  there  indiffereMtly  well,  he  returned  "in  the  course  of  the 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  177 

next  summer  to  Lichfield,  where  he  had  left  Mrs.  Johnson,"  and 
stayed  there  three  weeks,  his  mother  asking  him  whether,  when  in 
London,  ''  He  was  one  of  those  who  gave  the  wall  or  those  who 
took  it" — ^just  as  Burns  returned  to  Mauchline,  where  he  had 
left  Mrs.  Burns,  and  remained  in  the  neighborhood  about  the 
same  period  of  time,  his  mother  having  said  to  him  on  his  return, 
"  O,  Robert;" — That  he  took  his  wife  back  with  him  to  London, 
resolving  to  support  her  the  best  way  he  could,  by  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  fields  of  literature,  and  chiefly  through  an  engage- 
ment as  ganger  and  supervisor  to  Cave's  Magazine — as  Burns, 
with  similar  purposes,  and  not  dissimilar  means,  brought  his  wife 
to  Ellisland,  then  to  Dumfries  ; — That  partly  from  necessity  and 
partly  from  inclination,  he  used  to  perambulate  the  streets  of  the 
city  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  and  was  far  from  being  prim  or 
precise  in  his  company,  associating  much  with  one  Savage  at 
least  who  had  rubbed  shoulders  with  the  gallows — just  as  Burns 
on  Jenny  Geddes  and  her  successor  kept  skirring  the  country  at 
all  hours,  though  we  do  not  hear  of  any  of  his  companions  hav- 
ing been  stabbers  in  brothel-brawls  ; — That  on  the  publication  of 
his  '"London,"  that  city  rang  with  applause,  and  Pope  pro- 
nounced the  autiior — yet  anonymous — a  true  poet,  who  would 
soon  be  deterre,  while  General  Oglethorpe  became  his  patron, 
and  such  a  prodigious  sensation  did  his  genius  make,  that  in  the 
fulness  of  his  fame.  Earl  Gower  did  what  he  could  to  set  him  on 
the  way  of  being  elevated  to  a  schoolmastership  in  some  small 
village  in  Shropshire  or  Statfordshire,  "  of  which  the  certain  sal- 
ary was  sixty  pounds  a-year,  which  would  make  kiin  happy  for 
life  " — so  said  English  Earl  Gower  to  an  Irish  Dean  called  Jona- 
than Swift — ;just  as  Burns  soon  after  the  publication  of  "  Tam 
o'  Shanter,"  was  in  great  favor  with  Captain  Grose — though  there 
was  then  no  need  for  any  poet  to  tell  the  world  he  was  one,  as  he 
had  been  "deterre  a  year  or  two  before,  and  by  the  unexampled 
exertions  of  Grahame  of  Fintry,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  being 
oblivious  or  dead,  was  translated  to  the  diocese  of  Dumfries, 
where  he  die  I  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age;  the  very 
year,  we  believe,  of  his,  in  which  Johnson  issued  the  prospectu? 
of  his  Dictionary  ; — and  here  we  leave  the  Lexicographer  lor  a, 


ns  THE  GENIUS  AND 


moment  to  himself,  and  let  our  mind  again  be  occupied  for  a  mo- 
ment  exclusively  by  the  Exciseman. 

You  will  not  suppose  that  we  seriously  insist  on  this  parallel 
as  if  the  lines  throughout  ran  straight ;  or  that  we  are  not  well 
aware  that  there  was  far  from  being  in  reality  such  complete 
correspondence  of  the  circumstances — much  less  the  characters 
of  the  men.  But  both  had  to  struggle  for  their  very  lives — it  was 
sink  or  swim — and  by  their  own  buoyancy  they  were  borne  up. 
In  Johnson's  case,  there  is  not  one  dark  stain  on  the  story  of  all 
those  melancholy  and  memorable  years.  Hawkins  indeed 
more  than  insinuates  that  there  was  a  separation  between  him 
and  his  wife,  at  the  time  he  associated  with  Savage,  and  used 
with  that  profligate  to  stroll  the  streets  ;  and  that  she  was 
"  harbored  by  a  friend  near  the  Tower;"  but  Croker  justly  re- 
marks— "  That  there  never  has  existed  any  human  being,  all  the 
details  of  whose  life,  all  the  motives  of  whose  actions,  all  the 
thoughts  of  whose  mind,  have  been  so  unreservedly  brought 
before  the  public  ;  even  his  prayers,  his  most  secret  meditations, 
and  his  most  scrupulous  self-reproaches,  have  been  laid  before 
the  world  ;  and  there  is  not  to  be  found,  in  all  the  unparalleled 
information  thus  laid  before  us,  a  single  trace  to  justify  the 
accusation  which  Hawkins  so  wantonly  and  so  odiously,  and  it 
may  be  assumed,  so  falsely  makes."  However,  he  walked  in 
the  midst  of  evil — he  was  familiar  with  the  faces  of  the  wicked 
— the  guilty,  as  they  were  passing  by,  he  did  not  always  shun, 
as  if  they  were  lepers  ;  he  had  a  word  for  them — poor  as  he 
was,  a  small  coin — for  they  were  of  the  unfortunate  and  forlorn, 
and  his  heart  was  pitiful.  So  was  that  of  Burns.  Very  many 
years  Heaven  allotted  to  the  Sage,  that  virtue  might  be  instructed 
by  wisdom — all  the  good  acknowledge  that  he  is  great — and  his 
memory  is  hallowed  for  evermore  in  the  gratitude  of  Cliristendom. 
In  his  prime  it  pleased  God  to  cut  off  the  Poet — but  his  genius 
loo  has  left  a  blessing  to  his  own  people — and  has  diffused  noble 
llioughts,  generous  sentiments,  and  tender  feelings  over  many 
lands,  and  most  of  all  among  them  who  more  especially  feel  that 
they  are  his  bretiiren,  the  Vouv  u  ho  make  the  Rich,  and  like  him 
are  happy,  in  spile  of  its  hardships,  in  their  own  condition.  Let 
the  imperfections  of  his  character  then  be  spared,  if  it  be  even 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  17y 

for  the  sake  of  his  genius ;  on  higher  grounds  let  it  be  honored  ; 
for  if  tliere  was  much  weakness,  its  strength  was  mighty,  and 
his  religious  country  is  privileged  to  forget  his  frailties,  in 
humble  trust  that  they  are  forgiven. 

We  have  said  but  little  hitherto  of  Burns's  religion.  Some 
have  denied  that  he  had  any  religion  at  all — a  rash  and  cruel 
denial — made  in  the  face  of  his  genius,  his  character,  and  his 
life.  What  man  in  his  senses  ever  lived  without  religion  ?  "The 
fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  There  is  no  God" — was  Burns  an 
atheist  1  We  do  not  fear  to  say  that  he  was  religious  far  be- 
yond the  common  run  of  men,  even  them  who  may  have  had  a 
more  consistent  and  better  considered  creed.  Tiie  lessons  he 
received  in  the  "  auld  clay  biggin  "  were  not  forgotten  through 
life.  He  speaks — and  we  believe  him — of  his  "early  ingrained 
piety  "  having  been  long  remembered  to  good  purpose — what  he 
called  his  "  idiot  piety  " — not  meaning  thereby  to  disparage  it, 
but  merely  that  it  was  in  childhood  an  instinct.  "  Our  Father 
which  art  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  name  !"  is  breathed  from 
the  lips  of  infancy  with  the  same  feeling  at  its  heart  that  beats 
'owards  its  father  on  earth,  as  it  kneels  in  prayer  by  his  side. 
No  one  surely  will  doubt  his  sincerity  when  he  writes  from  Irvine 
to  his  father — "  Honor'd  sir — I  am  quite  transported  at  tlie 
ihouglit,  that  e'er  long,  perhaps  soon,  I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu 
to  all  the  pains,  and  uneasinesses,  and  disquietudes  of  this  vveary 
life  ;  fori  assure  you  I  am  heartily  tired  of  it,  and,  if  I  do  not  very 
much  deceive  myself,  I  could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  it.  It 
is  for  this  reason  1  am  more  pleased  with  the  15th,  IGtli,  and  17th 
verses  of  the  7th  chapter  of  Revelations,  than  with  any  ten 
times  as  many  verses  in  the  whole  Bible,  and  would  not  e.xchaniie 
the  noble  enthusiasm  with  whicii  they  inspire  me,  for  all  that  tills 
world  has  to  offer.  '  15.  Therefore  are  they  before  the  throne 
of  God,  and  serve  him  day  and  night  in  his  temple  ;  and  he  that 
sitteth  on  the  throne  shall  dwell  among  thum.  16.  They  shall 
hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more  ;  neitiier  shall  the  sun 
lighten  them,  nor  any  heat.  17.  For  the  Lamb  thai  is  in  the 
midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed  them,  and  siiall  lead  them  unto 
living  fountains  of  waters;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from   their  eves.'  '■      ^^■hen  he  cives  lessons  to  a  younji  man  for 

10 


180  THE  GENIUS  AND 


his  conduct  in  life,  one  of  them  is,  "  The  great  Creator  to 
adore ;"  when  he  consoles  a  friend  on  the  death  of  a  relative, 
"  he  points  the  brimful  grief- worn  eyes  to  scenes  beyond  the 
grave  ;"  when  he  expresses  benevolence  to  a  distressed  family, 
he  beseeches  the  aid  of  Him  "  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb  ;"  when  he  feels  the  need  of  aid  to  control  his 
passions,  he  implores  that  of  the  "  Great  Governor  of  all  below  ;" 
when  in  sickness,  he  has  a  prayer  for  the  pardon  of  all  his  errors, 
and  an  expression  of  confidence  in  the  goodness  of  God  ;  when 
suffering  from  the  ills  of  life,  he  asks  for  the  grace  of  resigna- 
tion, "  because  they  are  thy  will  ;"  when  he  observes  the  sutl'er- 
ings  of  the  virtuous,  he  remembers  a  rectifying  futurity ; — he  is 
religious  not  only  when  surprised  by  occasions  such  as  these, 
but  also  on  set  occasions  ;  he  had  regular  worship  in  his  family 
while  at  Ellisland — we  know  not  how  it  was  at  Dumfries,  but 
we  do  know  that  there  he  catechised  his  children  every  Sabbath 
evening  ; — Nay,  he  does  not  enter  a  Druidical  circle  without 
a  prayer  to  God. 

He  viewed  the  Creator  chiefly  in  his  attributes  of  love,  good- 
ness, and  mercy.  "  In  proportion  as  we  are  wrung  witli  grief, 
or  distracted  with  anxiety,  the  ideas  of  a  superintending  Deity, 
an  Almiglity  protector,  are  doubly  dear."  Him  he  never  lost 
sight  of,  or  confidence  in,  even  in  the  depths  of  his  remorse.  An 
avenging  God  was  too  seldom  in  his  contemplations — from  the 
little  severity  in  his  ov/n  character — from  a  philosophical  view 
of  the  inscrutable  causes  of  human  frailty — and  most  of  all, 
from  a  diseased  aversion  to  what  was  so  much  the  theme  of  the 
sour  Calvinism  around  him;  but  which  would  have  risen  up  an 
appalling  truth  in  such  a  soul  as  his,  had  it  been  habituated  to 
profounder  thought  on  the  mysterious  corruption  of  our  fallen 
nature. 

Sceptical  thoughts  as  to  revealed  religion  had  assailed  his 
mind,  while  with  expanding  powers  it  "  comniuned  with  the  glo- 
rious universe ;"  and  in  1787  he  writes  from  Edinburgh  to  a 
"  Mr.  .lames  M'Candlish,  student  in  physio.  College,  Glasgow," 
who  had  favored  him  witii  a  long  argumentative  infidel  letter,  ''I, 
likewise,  since  you  and  I  were  first  acquainted,  in  the  pride  of 
despising  old   women's   stories,    ventured  on   'the  daring  patii 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  181 


Spinoza  trod  ;'  but  experience  of  the  weakness,  not  the  strenf^th 
of  human  powers,  made  vw  glad  to  grasp  at  revealed  religion.^' 
When  at  Ellisland,  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  My  idle  reason- 
ings sometimes  make  me  a  little  sceptical,  but  tne  necessities  of 
my  heart  always  give  the  cold    philosophizings  the    lie.      Who 
looks  for  the  heart  weaned  from  earth  ;   the  soul  aflianced  to  her 
God;  the  correspondence  fixed   with  heaven;   the  pious  suppli- 
cation and  devout  thanksgiving,  constant  as  the  vicissitudes  of 
even  and  morn  ;   who  thinks  to  meet  with  these  in  the  court,  the 
palace,  in  the  glare  of  public  life  !     No  :  to  find   them   in  their 
precious  importance  and  divine  efficacy,  we  must  search  among 
the  obscure  recesses  of  disappointment,   affliction,   poverty,  and 
distress."     And   again,  next  year,  from  the  same  place  to  the 
same  correspondent,   "  That  there  is  an  incomprehensibly  Great 
Being,  to  whom  I  owe  my  existence,  and  that  he  must  be  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  operations  and  progress  of  the  internal 
machinery,  and  consequent  outward  deportment  of  this  creature 
he  has  made — these  are,  I  think,  self-evident  propositions.     That 
there  is  a  real  and  eternal  distinction  between  vice  and   virtue, 
and  consequently,  that  I  am  an  accountable  creature  ;   that  from 
the  seeming   nature  of  the  human    mind,  as  well   as   from    the 
evident  imperfection,  nay  positive  injustice,  in  the  administration 
of  affliirs,  both  in  the  natural  and  moral  worlds,  there  must  be  a 
retributive  sense  of  existence  beyond   the  grave,  must,  I  think, 
be  allowed  by  every  one  who  will  give  himself  a  moment's  re- 
flection.    I  will    go  farther  and  affirm,  that  from  the  sublimity, 
excellence,  and  purity  of  his  doctrine  and  precepts,  unparalleled 
by  all  the  aggregated  wisdom  and  learning  of  many  preceding 
ages,   though   to  appearance   he  was  himself  the  obscurest  and 
most  illiterate  of  our  species  :  therefore  Jesus  was  from  God." 
Indeed,  all    his  best   letters  to   Mrs.  Dunlop  are   full   of  the  ex- 
pression of  religious  feeling  and  religious  faith  ;  though  it  must 
be  confessed  with  pain,  that  he  speaks  with  more  confidence  in 
the  truth  of  natural  than  of  revealed  religion,  and  too  often  lets 
sentiments  inadvertently  escape  him,  that,  in  ken  by  themselves, 
would   imply  that   his  religious  belief  was  but  a  Ciiristianized 
Theism.     Of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,   he   never  expresses 
any  serious  doubt,  though  now  and  then,  his  expressions,  though 


1S2  THE  GENILS  AND 


beautiful,  want  their  usual  force,  as  if  he  felt  the  inadequacy  of 
the  human  mind  to  the  magnitude  of  the  tlieme.  "  Ye  venerable 
sages,  and  holy  flamens,  is  there  probability  in  your  conjectures, 
truth  in  your  stories,  of  another  world  beyond  death  ;  or  are 
they  all  alike  baseless  visions  and  fabricated  fables  ?  If  there 
is  another  life,  it  must  be  only  for  the  just,  the  amiable,  and  the 
humane.  What  a  flattering  idea  this  of  the  world  to  come ! 
^V^ould  10  God  I  as  firmly  believed  it  as  I  ardently  wish  it." 

How,  tlien,  could  honored  Thomas  Carlyle  bring  himself  to 
affirm,  "  that  Burns  had  no  religion  ?"    His  religion  was  in  much 
imperfect — but  its  incompleteness  you  discern  only  on  a  survey 
of  all  his  effusions,  and  by  inference  ;   for  his  particular  expres- 
sions of  a  religious  kind  are  genuine,  and  as  acknowledgments 
of  the  superabundant  goodness  and  greatness  of  God,  they  are 
in  unison  with  the  sentiments  of  the  devoutest  Christian.     But 
remorse  never  suggests  to  him  the  inevitable  corruption  of  man  ; 
Christian  humility  he  too   seldom  dwells  on,  though  without  it 
there  cannot  be  Christian  faith  ;   and  he  is  silent  on  the  need  of 
reconcilement    between    the    divine    attributes   of   Justice    and 
Mercy.     The  absence  of  all  this  might  pass  unnoticed,  were  not 
the  religious  sentiment  so  prevalent  in  his  confidential  commu- 
nications with  his  friends  in  his  most  serious  and  solemn  moods. 
Jn  them  there  is  frequent,  habitual  recognition  of  the  Creator  ; 
and  who  that  finds  joy  and  beauty  in  nature  has  not  the  same? 
It  may  be  well  supposed  that  if  common  men  are  more  ideal  in 
religion  than  in  other  things,  so  would  be  Burns.     He  who  has 
lent  the  colors  of  his  fancy  to  common  things,  would  not  with- 
hold  them    from  divine.     Something — he    knew   not  what — he 
would  exact  of  man — more  impressively  reverential  than  any- 
thing he  is  wont  to  offer  to  God,  or  perhaps  can  offer  in  the  way 
of  institution — in  temples  made  with  hands.     The  hearlfell.  ado- 
ration always  has  a  grace  for  him — in  the  silent  bosom — in  the 
lonely  cottage — in  any  place  where  circumstances  are  a  pledge 
of  its   reality  ;  but  the  moment   it  ceases  to  be  heartfelt,   and 
visibly    so,    it     loses     his    respect,    it    seems     as    profanation. 
"  Mine  is  the  religion  of  the  breast  ;"  and  if  it  be  not,  what  is  it 
worth  ?     But  it  must  also  revive  a  right   spirit  within  us ;   and 
there  may  be  gratitude  for  goodness,  without  such  change  as  is 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  183 


required  of  us  in  the  gospel.  He  was  too  buoyant  witli  immor- 
tal spirit  within  him  not  to  credit  its  innnortal  destination  ;  he 
was  too  tliouiihtful  in  his  liuman  love  not  to  feel  how  dilFurent 
must  be  our  allections  if  tliey  are  towards  flowers  wiiich  the 
blast  of  death  may  wither,  or  towards  spirits  which  are  but  be- 
ginning to  live  in  our  sight,  and  are  gathering  good  and  evil  here 
for  an  eternal  life.  Burns  believed  that  by  his  own  unassisted 
understandinir,  and  his  own  unassisted  heart,  he  saw  and  felt 
those  great  truths,  forgetful  of  this  great  truth,  that  he  had  been 
taught  them  in  the  Written  Word.  Had  all  he  learned  in  the 
"  auld  clay  biggin"  become  a  blank — all  the  knowledge  inspired 
into  his  heart  during  the  evenings,  when  "  the  sire  turned  o'er  \vi' 
patriarchal  air,  the  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride,"  how 
little  or  how  much  would  he  then  have  known  of  God  and  Im 
mortality?  In  tiiat  delusion  he  shared  more  or  less  witli  one  and 
all — whether  poets  or  philosophers — wiiu  have  put  their  trust  in 
natural  Theology.  As  to  the  glooms  in  which  his  sceptical  rea- 
son liad  been  involved,  they  do  not  seem  to  have  been  so  thick — 
so  dense — as  in  the  case  of  men  without  number,  who  have,  by 
the  blessing  of  God,  become  true  Christians.  Of  his  levities  on 
certain  celebrations  of  religious  rites,  we  before  ventured  an 
explanation  ;  and  while  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  he  did  not  more 
frequently  dedicate  tiie  genius  that  shed  so  holy  a  lustre  over 
"  The.  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  to  the  service  of  religion,  let  it 
be  remembered  how  few  poets  have  done  so — alas  !  too  few — 
that  he,  like  his  tuneful  brethren,  must  often  have  been  deterred 
by  a  sense  of  liis  own  unworthiness  from  approaching  its  awful 
mysteries — and  above  all,  that  he  was  called  to  his  account  be- 
fore he  had  attained  his  thoughtful  prime. 

And  now  that  we  are  approaching  the  close  of  our  Memoir,  it 
may  be  well  for  a  little  while  clearly  to  consider  Burns's  posi- 
tion in  this  world  of  ours,  where  we  humans  often  find  ourselves, 
we  cannot  tell  how,  in  strange  positions  ;  and  where  there  are, 
on  all  liand.s,  .so  many  unintelligible  things  going  on,  that  in  all 
languages  an  active  existence  is  assumed  of  such  powers  as 
Chance,  Fortune,  and  Fate.  Was  he  more  unhappy  tlian  the 
generality  of  gifted  men?  In  what  did  that  unhappiness  con- 
sist  ?     How  far  was  it  owing  to  himself  or  others  ? 


1S4  THE  GENIUS  AND 


We  have  seen,  that  up  to  early  manhood  Jiis  life  was  virtuous, 
and  therefore  must  have  been  happy — that  by  magnanimously 
enduring  a  hard  lot,  he  made  it  veritably  a  light  one — and  that 
though  subject  "  to  a  constitutional  melancholy  or  hypochondri- 
asm  that  made  him  fly  to  solitude,"  he  enjoyed  the  society  of  his 
own  humble  sphere  with  proportionate  enthusiasm,  and  even  then 
derived   deep  delight  from    his   genius.      That  genius  quickly 
waxed  strong,  and  very  suddenly  he  was  in  full  power  as  a  poet. 
No  sooner  was  passion  indulged  than   it  prevailed — and   he  w  ho 
had  so  often  felt  during  his  abstinent  sore-toiled  youth  that  "a 
blink  of  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment,"  had    now  often  to  rue  the 
self-brought  trouble  that  banishes  rest  even  from  the  bed  of  labor, 
whose  sleep  would  otherwise  be  without  a  dream.     "  I  have  for 
some  time  been  pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causes 
which  you  pretty  well   know — the   pang  of  disappointment,  tiie 
sling  of  pride,  with   some  wandering  stabs  of  remorse,   which 
never  fail  to  settle  on  my  vitals  like  vultures,  when  attention  is 
not  called  away  by  the  calls  of  society,  or  the  vagaries  of  the 
Muse."     These  agonies  had  a  well-known  particular  cause,  but 
his  errors  were   frequent  and  to  his  own  eyes  flagrant — yet  he 
was  no  irreligious  person — and   exclaimed — "  Oh  !  thou  great, 
unknown  Power!  thou  Almighty  God  !  who  hast  lighted  up  rea- 
son in   my  breast,   and   blessed  me    with   immortality  !     I  have 
frequently  wandered  from  that  order  and   regularity  necessary 
for  the  perfection  of  thy  works,  yet  thou  hast  never  left  me  nor 
forsaken  me."     What  signified  it  to  him  that  he  was  then  very 
poor  ?     The  worst  evils  of  poverty  are  moral  evils,  and  them  he 
then  knew  not ;  nay,  in  that  school  he  was  trained  to  many  vir- 
tues, whicb  might  not  have  been  so  conspicuous  even  in  his  noble 
nature,  but  for  that  severest  nurture.     Shall  we  ask,  what  signi- 
fied   it   to   him  that  he  was   very  poor  to   tiie  last  ?     Alas  !  it 
signiflod  much  ;   for  when  a  poor  man  becomes  a  iiusband  and  a 
father,  a  now   heart  is  created   within  him,  and  he   often   finds 
himself  trembling   in   fits  of  unendurable,    because    unavailing 
fears.     Of  such  anxieties  Burns  suffered  much  ;   yet  better  men 
than    i3urns — better   because    sobiM*   and    more    religious — have 
sulFercd  far  more;  nor  in  their  huniility  and  resignation  did  they 
say  even  unto  themselves  "  that  God  had  given  their  share." 


CHAR.\CTER  OF  BURNS.  1S5 


His  worst  sufferings  had  their  source  in  a  region  impenetrable 
to  the  visitations  of  mere  worldly  calamities ;  and  might  have 
been  even  more  direful,  had  his  life  basked  in  the  beams  of  for- 
tune, in  place  of  being  chilled  in  its  shade.  "  My  mind  my 
kingdom  is"' — few  men  have  had  better  title  to  make  that  boast 
than  Burns  ;  but  sometimes  raged  there  plus  quam  civilia  lella — 
and  on  the  rebellious  passions,  no  longer  subjects,  at  times  it 
scorned  as  if  he  cared  not  to  impose  peace. 

Wiiy,  then,  such  clamor  about  his  condition — such  outcry 
about  his  circumstances — such  horror  of  his  Excisemansiiip  ? 
Why  should  Scotland,  on  whose  "  brow  shame  is  ashamed  to 
sit,"  hang  down  her  head  when  bethinking  her  of  how  she  treat- 
ed him?  Hers  the  glory  of  having  produced  him;  where  lies 
the  blame  of  his  penury,  his  soul's  trouble,  his  living  body's 
emaciation,  its  untimely  death  ? 

His  country  cried,  "  All  hail,  mine  own  inspired  Bard  !  "  and 
his  heart  was  in  heaven.  But  heaven  on  earth  is  a  mid-reo-ion 
not  unvisited  by  storms.  Divine  indeed  must  be  the  descendinty 
light,  but  the  ascending  cloom  mav  be  dismal  :  in  imagination's 
airy  realms  the  Poet  cannot  forget  he  is  a  Man — his  passions 
pursue  him  thither — and  "that  mystical  roof  fretted  with  jxoldeti 
fire,  why  it  appears  no  other  thing  to  them  than  a  foul  and  pes- 
tilent congregation  of  vapors."  The  primeval  curse  is  felt 
through  all  the  regions  of  being  ;  and  he  who  in  the  desire  of 
fame  iiaving  merged  all  other  desires,  finds  himself  on  a  sudden 
in  its  blaze,  is  disappointed  of  his  spirit's  correspondino-  trans- 
port, without  whicii  it  is  but  a  glare  ;  and  remembering  the  sweet 
calm  of  his  obscurity,  when  it  was  enlivened  not  disturbed  bv 
soaring  aspirations,  would  fain  fly  back  to  its  secluded  sliades 
and  be  again  his  own  lowly  natural  self  in  the  privacy  of  his 
own  humble  birth-place.  Something  of  this  kind  happened  to 
Burns.  He  was  soon  sick  of  the  dust  and  din  that  attended  him 
on  his  illumined  path  ;  and  ftlt  that  he  had  been  happier  at  A[oss- 
giel  than  he  ever  was  in  the  Metropolis — when  but  to  relieve  his 
heart  of  its  pathos,  he  sung  in  the  solitary  field  to  the  mountain 
daisy,  than  when  to  win  applause,  on  the  crowded  street  he 
chanted  in  ambitious  strains — 


IfG  THE  GENIUS  AND 


"  Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat  I 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  leet 
Sat  legislation's  sov'reign  powers ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flow'rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 
I  shelter  in  thy  honor'd  shade." 

He  returned  to  his  natural  condition,  when  he  settled  at  Ellis- 
land.  Nor  can  we  see  what  some  have  seen,  any  strong  desire 
ill  liim  after  preferment  to  a  higher  sphere.  Such  thouglits 
sometimes  must  have  entered  his  mind,  but  they  found  no 
permanent  dwelling  there  ;  and  he  fell  back,  not  only  without 
pain,  but  with  more  than  pleasure,  on  all  the  remembrances  of 
his  humble  life.  He  resolved  to  pursue  it  in  the  same  scenes, 
and  the  same  occupations,  and  to  continue  to  be  what  he  had 
always  been — a  Farmer. 

And  why  should  the  Caledonian  Hunt  have  wished  to  divert 
or  prevent  him  ?  Why  should  Scotland  ?  What  patronage, 
pray  tell  us,  ought  the  Million  and  Two  'J'iiirds  to  have  bestow- 
ed on  their  poet  ?  With  five  hundred  pounds  in  the  pockets  of 
his  buckskin  breeches,  perhaps  he  was  about  as  rich  as  yourself 
— and  then  he  had  a  mine — which  we  hope  you  have  too — in  his 
brain.  Sometliing  no  doubt  7)u'ght  have  been  done  for  him,  and 
if  you  insist  that  something  should,  we  are  not  in  the  humor  of 
argumentation,  and  shall  merely  observe  that  the  opportunities 
to  serve  hiin  were  somewhat  narrowed  by  the  want  of  special 
preparation  for  any  profession  ;  but  supposing  that  nobody  thougiit 
of  promoting  him,  it  was  simply  becau.se  everybody  was  think- 
ing of  getting  promoted  himself;  and  tliough  selfishness  is  very 
odious,  not  more  so  surely  in  Scotsmen  than  in  other  people,  ex- 
cept indeed  that  more  is  expected  from  them  on  account  of  their 
superior  intelligence  and  virtue. 

Burns's  great  calling  here  below  was  to  illustrate  the  peasant 
life  of  Scotland.  Ages  may  pass  without  anotlier  arising  fit  for 
that  tasK  ;  meanwliile  the  whole  pageant  of  Scottish  life  has 
passea  away  without  a  record.  Let  him  remain,  thereforej  in 
the  place  which   best  fits  him  for  the  task,  liiough  it  may  not  be 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  187 

the  best  for  his  personal  comfort.  If  an  individual  can  serve 
his  country  at  the  expense  of  his  comfort;  he  must,  and  otiiers 
should  not  hinder  him  ;  if  self-sacrifice  is  required  of  iiim,  they 
must  not  be  blamed  for  permitting  it.  Burns  followed  his  call- 
ing to  the  last,  with  more  lets  and  hindrances  than  the  friends 
of  humanity  could  have  wished  ;  but  with  a  power  tiiat  miglit 
have  been  weakened  by  his  removal  from  what  he  loved  and 
gloried  in — by  the  disruption  of  his  heart  from  its  habits,  and 
the  breaking  up  of  that  custom  whieli  with  many  men  becomes 
second  nature,  but  which  with  him  was  corroboration  and  sanc- 
tificalion  of  the  first,  both  being  but  one  agency — its  products 
how  beautiful !  Like  the  flower  and  fruit  of  a  tree  that  irrows 
well  only  in  its  own  soil,  and  by  its  own  river. 

But  a  Ganger  !  What  do  we  say  to  that  ?  Was  it  not  most 
unworthy  ?  We  ask,  unwortliy  what  ?  You  answer,  his  ge- 
nius. But  who  expects  the  employments  by  which  men  live  to 
be  entirely  worthy  of  their  genius — congenial  with  their  dispo. 
sitions — suited  to  the  structure  of  their  souls  ?  It  sometimes 
happens,  but  far  oftener  not — rarely  in  the  case  of  poets,  and 
most  rarely  of  all  in  the  case  of  such  a  poet  as  Burns.  It  is  a 
law  of  nature  that  the  things  of  the  world  come  by  honest  in- 
dustry, and  that  genius  is  its  own  reward,  in  the  pleasure  of  its 
exei'tions  and  its  applause.  But  who  made  Burns  a  ganger  ? 
Himself.  It  was  his  own  choice.  "I  have  been  feelino'  all 
the  various  rotations  and  movements  within  respecting  the  ex- 
cise," he  writes  to  Aiken  soon  after  tlie  Kilmarnock  edition. 
'•  There  are  many  things  plead  strongly  against  it,"  he  adds, 
but  tliese  were  all  connected  with  his  unfortunate  private  affairs  ; 
to  the  calling  itself  he  had  no  repugnance  ;  what  he  most  feared 
was  "the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon  into  business."  To  Gra- 
ham of  Fintry  he  writes,  a  year  after  the  Edinburgh  edition, 
"  Ye  know,  I  dare  say,  of  an  a[)plication  I  lately  made  to  your 
Board  to  be  admitted  an  officer  of  excise.  I  have,  accordinir  to 
form,  been  examined  by  a  supervisor,  and  to-day  I  gave  in  two 
certificates,  witii  a  request  for  an  order  for  instructions.  In  this 
affair,  if  I  succeed,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  but  too  mucli  need  a  pa- 
tronizing friend.  Propriety  of  conduct  as  a  man,  and  fidelity 
and  attention  as  an  ofllcer,  I  dare  engage  for ;  hut  with  anijthing 


188  THE  GENIUS  AND 


like  husiness,  except  manual  labor,  I  am  totally  unacquainted. 
*  *  I  know,  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness  is  to  have  a  claim 
on  it ;  may  1  therefore  beg  your  patronage  to  forward  me  \n  this 
atfiiir,  till  1  be  appointed  to  a  division,  where,  by  the  help  of 
rigid  economy,  I  will  try  to  support  that  independence  so  dear 
to  my  soul,  but  which  has  been  too  often  distant  from  my  situa- 
tion." To  Miss  Chalmers  he  writes,  "You  will  condemn  me 
for  the  next  step  I  have  taken.  I  have  entered  into  the  excise. 
I  have  chosen  this,  my  dear  friend,  after  mature  deliberation. 
The  question  is  not  at  what  door  of  fortune's  palace  we  shall 
enter  in,  but  what  door  does  she  open  for  us  ?  I  got  this 
without  any  hanging  on,  or  mortifying  solicitation  :  it  is  imme- 
diate support,  and  though  poor  in  comparison  of  the  last  eighteen 
months  of  my  existence,  it  is  plenty  in  comparison  of  all  my 
preceding  life  ;  besides,  the  Commissioners  are  some  of  them  my 
acquaintance,  and  all  of  them  my  firm  friends."  To  Dr.  Moore 
he  writes,  "  There  is  still  one  thing  would  make  me  quite  easy. 
I  have  an  excise  officer's  commission,  and  I  live  in  the  midst  of 
a  country  division.  If  I  were  very  sanguine,  I  might  hope  that 
some  of  my  great  patrons  might  procure  me  a  treasury  warrant 
for  supervisor,  surveyor-general,  &c."  It  is  needless  to  multi- 
ply quotations  to  the  same  effect.  Burns  with  his  usual  good 
sense  took  into  account,  in  his  own  estimate  of  such  a  calling, 
not  his  genius,  which  had  really  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  all 
his  early  circumstances,  and  his  present  prospects  ;  nor  does  it 
seem  at  any  time  to  have  been  a  source  of  much  discomfort  to 
himself;  on  the  contrary,  he  looks  forward  to  an  increase  of  its 
emoluments  with  hope  and  satisfaction.  We  are  not  now  speak- 
ing  of  the  disappointment  of  his  hopes  of  rising  in  the  profes- 
sion, but  of  the  profession  itself:  "  A  supervisor's  income  varies," 
he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Heron  of  that  ilk,  '-from  about  a  hundred 
and  twenty  to  two  hundred  a  year  ;  but  the  business  is  an  inces- 
sant drudgery,  and  would  be  nearly  a  complete  bar  to  every 
species  of  literary  pursuit.  The  moment  I  a:n  ap|)ointed  super- 
visor, I  may  be  nominated  on  the  collector's  list ;  and  this  is 
always  a  business  purely  of  political  patrcnage.  A  collectorship 
varies  much,  from  better  than  two  hundred  a  year  to  near  a 
thousand.     They  alsc  come  forward  by  precedency  on  the  list ; 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  1S9 


and  have,  besides  a  handsome  income,  a  life  of  complete  leisure. 
A  life  of  literary  leisure,  with  a  decent  competency,  is  the  sum- 
mit of  my  wishes."  With  such  views,  Burns  became  a  gauger 
as  well  as  a  farmer;  we  can  see  no  degradation  in  his  having 
done  so — no  reason  why  whimpering  cockneys  should  continu- 
ally cry  "  Shame  !  shame !  on  Scotland  "  for  havi)ig  let 
"Bunns  " — as  they  pronounce  l)im — adopt  his  own  mode  of  life. 
Allan  Cuninghaine  informs  us  that  the  officers  of  excise  on  the 
Nith  were  then  a  very  superior  set  of  men  indeed  to  those  who 
now  ply  on  the  Thames.  Burns  saw  nothing  to  despise  in  iionest 
men  who  did  their  duty  ;  he  could  pick  and  choose  among  them  ; 
and  you  do  not  imagine  that  he  was  obliged  to  associate  exclu- 
sively or  intimately  with  ushers  of  the  rod.  Gaugers  are  grega- 
rious, but  not  so  gregarious  as  barristers  and  bagmen.  The 
Club  is  composed  of  gauger,  shop-keeper,  schoolmaster,  surgeon, 
retired  merchant,  minister,  assistant-and-successor,  cidevant 
militia  captain,  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Peninsula  with  a 
wooden-leg,  and  haply  a  horse-marine.  These  are  the  ordinary 
members  ;  but  amontr  the  honorary  vou  find  men  of  hisih  de- 
gree,  squires  of  some  thousands,  and  baronets  of  some  hundreds 
a-year.  The  rise  in  that  department  has  been  sometimes  so  sud- 
den as  to  astonish  the  unexcised.  A  gauger,  of  a  very  few 
years'  standing,  has  been  known,  after  a  quarter's  supervisor- 
ship,  to  ascend  the  collector's — and  ere  this  planet  had  performed 
another  revolution  round  the  sun — the  Comptroller's  chair — 
from  which  he  might  well  look  down  on  the  Chancellor  of  Eng- 
land. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  we  are  running  counter  to  the  com- 
mon feeling  in  what  we  have  now  been  saying,  nor  blame  us  for 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  levity  on  a  serious  subject.  We  cannot 
bear  to  liear  people  at  one  hour  scorning  the  distinctions  of  rank, 
and  acknowledging  none  but  of  worth  ;  and  at  another  whining 
for  the  sake  of  worth  without  rank,  and  estimating  a  man's  hap- 
piness— which  is  something  more  than  his  respectability — by  the 
amount  of  his  income,  or  according  to  the  calling  from  which  il 
is  derived.  Such  persons  cannot  have  read  Burns.  Or  do  they 
think  that  such  sentiments  as  "The  rank  is  but  the  guinea 
stamp,  the  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that,"  are  all  very  fine  in  verse. 


190  THE  GENIUS  AND 

but  have  no  place  in  the  prose  of  life,  no  application  among 
men  of  sense  to  its  concerns'?  But  in  how  many  departments 
have  not  men  to  addict  themselves  almost  all  their  lives  to  the 
performance  of  duties,  which,  merely  as  acts  or  occupations,  are 
in  themselves  as  unintellectual  as  polishing  a  pin  ?  Why,  a 
pin-polisher  may  be  a  poet,  who  rounds  its  head  an  orator,  who 
sharpens  its  point  a  metaphysician.  Wait  his  time,  and  you 
hear  the  first  singing  like  a  nightingale  in  the  autumnal  season  ; 
the  second  roaring  like  a  bull,  and  no  mistake ;  the  third,  in 
wandering  mazes  lost,  like  a  prisoner  trying  to  tiiread  the  Cretan 
labyrinth  without  his  clue.  Let  a  man  but  have  something  that 
he  must  do  or  starve,  nor  be  nice  about  its  nature  ;  and  be  ye 
under  no  alarm  about  the  degradation  of  his  soul.  Let  him 
even  be  a  tailor  ;  nay,  that  is  carrying  the  principle  too  far ; 
but  any  other  handicraft  let  him  for  short  hours — ten  out  of  the 
eighteen  (six  he  may  sleep)  for  three  score  years  and  ten — assi- 
duously cultivate,  or  if  fate  have  placed  him  in  a  ropery,  dog- 
gedly pursue  ;  and  if  nature  have  given  him  genius,  he  will 
find  time  to  instruct  or  enchant  the  world  ;  if  but  goodness,  time 
to  benefit  it  by  his  example,  "  though  never  heard  of  half  a  mile 
from  home." 

Who  in  this  country,  if  you  except  an  occasional  statesman, 
take  their  places  at  once  in  the  highest  grade  of  their  calling  ? 
In  the  learned  professions,  what  obscurest  toil  must  not  the 
brightest  go  through  !  Under  what  a  pressure  of  mean  obser-* 
vances  the  proudest  stoop  their  heads  !  The  color-ensign  in  a 
black  regiment  has  risen  to  be  colonel  in  the  Rifle-brigade. 
The  middy  in  a  gun-brig  on  the  African  station  has  commanded 
a  tiiree-decker  at  Trafalgar.  Through  successive  grades  they 
must  all  go — the  armed  and  the  gowned  alike  ;  the  great  law  of 
advancement  holds  among  men  of  noble  and  of  ignoble  birth, 
not  without  exceptions  indeed  in  favor  of  family,  and  of  fortune 
too,  more  or  less  frequent,  more  or  less  flagrant — but  talent,  and 
integrity,  and  honor,  and  learning,  and  genius,  are  not  often 
heard  complaining  of  foul  play  ;  if  you  deny  it,  their  triumj)h  is 
the  more  glorious,  for  generally  they  win  the  day,  and  when 
they  have  won  it — that  is,  risen  in  their  profession,  what  be- 
comes of  them  then  ?     Soldiers  or  civilians,  they  must  go  where 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  191 

they  are  ordered,  in  obedience  to  the  same  great  law  ;  they  ap. 
peal  to  their  services  when  insisting  on  being  sent — and  in  some 
pestilential  climate  swift  death  benumbs 

"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd — 
Or  wak'd  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre." 

Tt  is  drudgery  to  sit  six,  or  eight,  or  ten  hours  a-day  as  a 
clerk  in  the  India-house  ;  but  Charles  Lamb  endured  it  for  forty 
years,  not  without  much  headache  and  heartache  too,  we  dare 
say  ;  but  Elia  shows  us  how  the  unwearied  flame  of  genius 
can  please  itself  by  playing  in  the  thickest  gloom  ;  how  fancy 
can  people  dreariest  vacancy  with  rarest  creatures  holding  com- 
munion in  quaintest  converse  with  the  finest  feelings  of  the 
thoughtful  heart — how  eyes  dim  with  poring  all  day  on  a  ledjjer, 
can  glisten  through  the  evenir^,  and  far  on  in-to  the  night,  with 
those  alternate  visitings  of  humor  and  of  pathos  that  for  a  while 
come  and  go  as  if  from  regions  in  the  spirit  separate  and  apart, 
but  ere  long  by  their  quiet  blending  persuade  us  to  believe  that 
their  sources  are  close  adjacent,  and  that  the  streams,  when  left 
to  themselves,  often  love  to  unite  their  courses,  and  to  flow  on 
together  with  merry  or  melancholy  music,  just  as  we  choose  to 
think  it,  as  smiles  may  be  the  order  of  the  hour,  or  as  we  may 
be  commanded  by  the  touch  of  some  unknown  power  within  us 
to  indulge  the  luxury  of  tears. 

Why,  then,  we  ask  again,  such  lamentation  for  the  fate  of 
Burns  ?  Why  should  not  he  have  been  left  to  make  his  own 
way  ill  life  like  other  men  gifted  or  ungifted  ?  A  man  of  great 
genius  in  the  prime  of  life  is  poor.  But  his  poverty  did  not  for 
any  long  time  necessarily  affect  the  welfare  or  even  comfort  of 
the  poet,  and  therefore  created  no  obligation  on  his  country  to 
interfere  with  his  lot.  He  was  born  and  bred  in  an  humble  sta- 
tion— l)ut  such  as  it  was,  it  did  not  impede  his  culture,  fame, 
or  service  to  his  people,  or  rightly  considered,  his  own  happi- 
ness ;  let  him  remain  in  it,  or  leave  it  as  he  will  and  can,  but 
tliere  was  no  obligation  on  others  to  take  him  out  of  it.  He  had 
already  risen  superior  to  circumstances — and  would  do  so  still  ; 
his  gloty  availed  much  in    having   conquered   them  ;  give  him 

17 


192  THE  GENIUS  AND 


better,  and  tlie  peculiar  species  of  his  glory  will  depart.  Give 
hiin  better,  and  it  may  be,  that  he  achieves  no  more  glory  of 
any  kind.  For  nothing  is  more  uncertain  than  the  etlects  of 
circumstances  on  character.  Some  men,  we  know,  are  specially 
adapted  to  adverse  circumstances,  rising  thereby  as  tiie  kite 
rises  to  the  adverse  breeze,  and  falling  when  the  adversity 
ceases.  Such  was  probably  Burns's  nature — his  genius  being 
piqued  to  activity  by  the  contradictions  of  iiis  fortune. 

Suppose  that  some  generous  rich  man  had  accidentally  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  lad  Robert  Burns,  and  grieving  to 
think  that  such  a  mind  should  continue  boorish  among  boors, 
had,  much  to  his  credit,  taken  him  from  the  plough,  sent  him  to 
College,  and  given  him  a  complete  education.  Doubtless  he 
would  have  excelled  ;  for  he  was  "quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to 
know."  But  he  would  not  have  been  Scotland's  Burns.  The 
prodigy  had  not  been  exhibited  of  a  poet  of  the  first  order  in 
that  rank  of  life.  It  is  an  instructive  spectacle  for  the  world, 
and  let  the  instruction  take  effect  by  the  continuance  of  tlie  spec- 
tacle for  its  natural  period.  Let  the  poet  \\ork  at  that  calling 
which  is  clearly  meant  for  him — he  is  "  native  and  endued  to 
the  element "  of  his  situation — there  is  no  appearance  of  his  be- 
ing alien  or  strange  to  it — he  professes  proudly  that  his  ambition 
is  to  illustrate  the  very  life  he  exists  in — his  happiest  moments 
are  in  doing  so — and  he  is  reconciled  to  it  by  its  being  thus 
blended  with  the  happiest  exertions  of  his  genius.  We  must 
look  at  his  lot  as  a  whole — from  beginning  to  end — and  so  looked 
at  it  was  not  unsuitable — but  the  reverse ;  for  as  to  its  later  af- 
flictions they  were  not  such  as  of  necessity  belonged  to  it,  were 
partly  owing  to  hiinself,  partly  to  others,  partly  to  evil  influences 
peculiar  not  to  his  calling,  but  to  the  times. 

If  Burns  had  not  been  prematurely  cut  off,  it  is  not  to  be 
doubted  that  he  would  have  got  promotion  either  by  favor,  or  in 
the  ordinary  course;  and  had  that  happened,  he  would  not  have 
had  much  cause  for  complaint,  nor  would  he  have  complained 
ttiat  like  other  men  he  had  to  wait  events,  and  reach  compe- 
tence or  affluence  by  the  usual  routine.  He  would,  like  other 
men,  have  then  looked  back  on  his  narrow  circumstances,  and 
their  privations,  as  conditions  which,  from   the   first,   he   knew 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  lO.'l 

must  precede  preferment,. and  would  no  more  have  thought  such 
hurdsliips  peculiar  to  his  lot,  than  the  first  lieutenant  of  a  frigate, 
the  rough  work  he  had  had  to  perform,  on  small  pay,  and  no 
delicate  mess  between  decks,  when  he  was  a  mate,  though  then 
perhaps  a  better  seaman  than  the  Commodore. 

With  these  sentiments  we  do  not  expect  that  all  who  honor 
this  lyfemoir  with  a  perusal  will  entirely  sympathize  ;  but  im- 
perfect as  it  is,  we  have  no  fear  of  its  favorable  reception  by  our 
friends,  on  the  score  of  its  pervading  spirit.  As  to  the  poor 
creatures  who  purse  up  their  unmeaning  mouths,  trying  too 
without  the  necessary  feature  to  sport  the  supercilious — and  in- 
stead of  speaking  daggers,  pip  pins  against  the  "  Scotch  " — 
they  are  just  the  very  vermin  who  used  to  bite  Burns,  and  one 
would  pause  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  impale 
a  dozen  of  them  on  one's  pen,  if  they  happened  to  crawl  across 
one's  paper.  But  our  Southern  brethren — the  noble  English — 
who  may  not  share  these  sentiments  of  ours — will  think  "  more 
in  sorrow  than  iu  anger"  of  Burns's  fate,  and  for  his  sake  will 
be  loth  to  blame  his  mother  land.  They  must  think  with  a  sigh 
of  their  <^wn  Bloomfield,  and  Clare  !  Our  Burns  indeed  was  a 
greater  far;  but  they  will  call  to  mind  the  calamities  of  their 
men  of  genius,  of  discoverers  in  science,  who  advanced  the 
wealth  of  nations,  and  died  of  hunger — of  musicians  who  taught 
the  souls  of  the  people  in  angelic  harmonies  to  commerce  with 
heaven,  and  dropt  unhonored  into  a  hole  of  earth — of  painters 
who  glorified  the  very  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  were  buried  in 
places  for  a  long  time  obscure  as  the  shadow  of  oblivion — and 
surpassing  glory  and  shame  of  all — 

"  Of  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead." 

We  never  tiiink  of  the  closing  years  of  Burns's  life,  without 
feeling  what  not  many  seem  to  have  felt,  that  much  more  of 
tilt  ir  unhappiness  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  most  mistaken  notion 
he  had  unfortunately  taken  up,  of  there  being  something  de- 
grading in  genius  in  writing  for  money,  than  perhaps  to  all  other 
causes  put  tog(  tlier.  eertainly  far  more  than  to  his  professional 
calling,  however  unsuitable  that  may  have  been  to  a  poet.     By 


104  THE  GENIUS  AND 


persisting  in  a  line  of  conduct  pursuant  to  that  persuasion,  he 
kept. himself  in  perpetual  poverty;  and  though  it  is  not  possible 
la  blame  him  severely  for  such  a  fault, 'originating  as  it  did  in 
the  generous  enthusiasm  of  the  poetical  character,  a  most  seri- 
ou.s  fault  il  was,  and  its  consequences  were  most  lamentable. 
!So  far  from  being  an  extravagant  man,  in  jhe  common  conceins 
of  life  he  observed  a  proper  parsimony  ;  and  they  must  have 
been  careless  readers  indeed,  both  of  his  prose  and  verse,  wlio 
have  taxed  him  with  lending  the  colors  of  his  geiiius  to  set  otF 
with  a  i'alse  lustre  that  profligate  profuseness,  habitual  only  with 
the  selfish,  and  irreconcileahlc  with  any  steadfast  domestic  virtue. 

"  To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her; 
And  gather  gear  by  every  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor  ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train  attendant; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  Independent." 

• 
Such  was.  the  advice  he  gave  to  a  young  friend  in  1786,  and  in 
1789,  in  a  letter  to  Robert  Ainslie,  he  says,  "  Your  poets,  spend- 
thrifts, and  other  fools  of  that  kidney  pretend,  forsooth,  to  crack 
their  jokes  on  prudence — but  'tis  a  squalid  vagabond  gloryino- 
in  his  rags.  Still,  imprudence  respecting  n)oney  matters  is 
much  more  pardonable  tlian  imnrudence  respecting  character. 
1  have  no  objections  to  prefer  prodigality  to  avarice,  in  some  few 
instances:  but  I  appeal  to  your  own  observation  if  you  have  not 
often  met  with  the  same  disingenuousness,  the  same  hollow- 
hearted  insincerity,  and  disintejrrative  depravity  of  principle,  in 
the  hackneyed  victims  of  profusion,  as  in  the  unfeeling  child- 
ren of  parsimony."  Similar  sentiments  will  recur  to  every  one 
familiar  witii  hiy  writings — all  through  them  till  the  very  end. 
His  very  songs  are  full  of  them — many  of  the  best  impressively 
preaching  in  sweetest  numbers  industry  and  thrift.  So  was  he 
privileged  to  indulge  in  poetic  transports — to  picture,  without 
reproach,  the  genial  hours  in  the  poor  man's  life,  alas  !  hut  toe 
unfrequent,  and  therefore  to  be  enjoyed  with  a  lawful  revelry, 


CHARACTER  OF  BUR:*S.  195 


at  once  obedtent  to  the  iron-tongued  knell  that  commands  it  to 
ceaoe.  So  was  he  justified  in  scorning  tiie  close-fisted  nicrgard- 
liness  that  forces  up  one  finger  after  another,  as  if  chirted  by 
a  screw,  and  then  shows  to  the  pauper  a  pahn  with  a  doit. 
"  Take  care  of  the  pennies,  and  the  pounds  will  take  care  of 
themselves,"  is  an  excellent  maxin  ;  but  we  do  not  look  for  illus- 
trations of  it  in  poetry;  perhaps  it  is  too  importunate  in  prose. 
Full-grown  moralists  and  political  economists,  eager  to  promote 
the  virtue  and  the  wealth  of  nations,  can  study  it  scientifically 
in  Adam  Smith — but  the  boy  must  have  two  buttons  lo  his  fob 
and  a  clasp,  who  would  seek  for  it  in  Robert  Burns.  The  bias 
of  ^oor  human  nature  seems  to  lean  sufiiciently  to  self,  and  to 
require  sometliing  to  balance  it  the  other  way  ;  what  more  ef- 
fectual than  the  touch  of  a  poet's  finger  ?  We  cannot  relieve 
every  wretch  we  meet — yet  if  we  "  take  care  of  the  pennies," 
how  shall  tlie  hunger  that  beseeches  us  on  the  street  get  a  bap  ? 
If  we  let  "the  pounds  take  care  of  themselves,"  how  shall  we 
answer  to  God  at  the  great  day  of  judgment — remembering 
how  often  we  had  let  "  unpitied  want  retire  to  die — "  the  white- 
faced  widow  pass  us  unrelieved,  in  faded  weeds  that  seemed  as 
if  they  were  woven  of  dust  ? 

In  his  poetry,  Burns  taught  love  and  pity  ;  in  his  life  he  prac- 
tised them.  Nay,  though  seldom  free  from  the  pressure  of 
poverty,  so  ignorant  was  he  of  tlie  science  of  duty,  that  to  the 
very  last  he  was  a  notorious  giver  of  alms.  Many  an  impostor 
must  have  preyed  on  his  meal-girnel  at  Ellisland  ;  perhaps  the 
old  sick  sailor  was  one,  who  nevertheless  repaid  several  weeks' 
board  and  lodging  with  a  cutter  one-foot  keel,  and  six  pound 
burthen,  wliich  young  Bobby  Burns — such  is  this  uncertain  word 
— gral  one  Sabbath  to  see  a  total  wreck  far  off  in  the  mid-eddies 
of  tlie  mighty  Nith.  Bur  the  idiot  who  got  his  dole  from  the 
poet's  own  hand,  as  often  as  he  chose  to  come  churming  up  the 
Vennel,  he  was  no  impostor,  and  though  he  had  lost  his  wits, 
retained  a  sense  of  gratitude,  and  returned  a  blessing  in  such 
phrase  as  thev  can  articulate  "  whose  lives  are  hidilen  with 
God." 

How  happened  it,  then,  tliat  such  a  man  was  so  neglectful  of 
his  wife  and  family,  as  to  let  their  hearts  often  ache  while  he 

17* 


196  •  THE  GENIUS  AjSD 


was  in  possession  of  a  productive  genius  that  rrtight  so  easily 
have  procured  for  them  all  tiie  necessaries,  and  conveniences, 
and  some  even  of  the  luxuries  of  life?  By  the  Edinhurgh  edi- 
tion of  his  poems,  and  the  copyright  to  Creech,  he  had  made  a 
little  fortune,  and  we  know  how  well  he  used  it.  From  the  day 
of  his  final  settlement  with  that  money-making,  story-telling, 
magisterial  bibliopole,  who  rejoiced  for  many  years  in  tlie  name 
of  Provost — to  the  week  before  his  death,  his  pottry,  and  that 
too  sorely  against  his  will,  brought  him  in — ten  pounds  f  Had 
he  thereby  annually  earned  fifty — what  happy  faces  al  that  fire- 
side !  how  difttirent  that  household  !  comparatively  how  calm 
that  troubled  life  ! 

All  the  poetry,  by  which  he  was  suddenly  made  so  famous,  had 
been  written,  as  you  know,  without  the  thought  of  money  having  so 
much  as  flitted  across  his  mind.  The  delight  of  embodying  in 
verse  the  visions  of  his  inspired  fancy — of  awakening  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  few  rustic  auditors  in  his  own  narrow  circle,  whose 
hearts  lie  well  knew  throbbed  wiiii  tiie  same  emotions  that  are  dear- 
est to  humanity  all  over  the  wide  world — that  had  been  at  first  all 
in  all  to  him — the  young  poet  exulting  in  his  power  and  in  the 
proof  of  his  power — till  as  the  assurance  of  his  soul  in  its  divine 
endowment  waxed  stronger  and  stronger  he  beheld  his  country's 
muse  with  the  holly-wreath  in  her  hand,  and  bowed  his  head  to 
receive  the  everlasting  halo.  "  And  take  thou  this  she  smiling 
said  " — that  smile  was  as  a  seal  set  on  his  fame  for  ever — 
and  "  in  the  old  clay  bicgin  "  he  was  happy  to  the  full 
measure  of  his  large  heart's  desire.  His  poems  grew  up  like 
flowers  before  his  tread — they  came  out  like  singing- birds 
from  the  thickets — they  grew  like  clouds  on  the  sky — there  they 
were  in  their  beauty,  and  he  hardly  knew  they  were  his  o\\  n — 
so  quiet  had  been  their  creation,  so  like  the  process  of  nature 
among  her  material  loveliness,  in  the  season  of  spnng  when  life 
is  M^ain  evolved  out  of  death,  and  the  renovation  seems  as  if  it 
would  never  more  need  the  Almighty  hand,  in  that  immortal 
union  of  earth  and  heaven. 

You  will  not  think  these  words  extravagant,  if  you  have  well 
considered  the  ecstasy  in  which  the  spirit  of  the  poet  was  lifted 
up  above  the  carking  cares  of  his  toils)me  life,  by  the  conscious 


CHARACTER  OF  BURX-?.  197 


ness  of  the  genius  that  had  been  gi  ren  him  to  idealize  it.  "My 
heart  rejoiced  in  Nature's  joy ''  he  says,  renienibcring  the 
beautiful  happiness  of  a  summer  day  reposing  on  the  woods-; 
and  from  that  line  we  know  how  intimate  had  been  his  co.ii- 
munion  with  Nature  long  before  he  had  indited  to  her  a  single 
la\-  of  love.  And  still  as  he  wandered  among  her  secret  haunts 
lie  thought  of  her  poets — with  a  fearful  hope  that  he  might  one 
day  be  of  the  number — and  most  of  all  of  Ferguson  and  llam- 
say,  because  they  belonged  to  Scotland,  were  Scottish  in  all 
their  looks,  and  all  their  language,  in  the  very  habits  of  their 
bodies,  and  in  the  very  frames  of  their  souls — humble  names 
now  indeed  compared  with  his  own,  but  to  the  en'd  sacred  in  his 
generous  and  grateful  bosom  ;  for  at  "  The  Farmer's  Ingle  "  his 
imagination  had  kindled  into  the  "Cottar's  Saturday  Night;" 
in  the  "  Gentle  Shepherd  "  he  had  seen  many  a  happy  sight  that 
had  furnished  the  matter,  we  had  almost -said  insj)ired  the  emo- 
tion, of  some  of  his  sweetest  and  most  gladsome  songs.  In  his 
own  every-day  working  world  he  walked  as  a  man  contented 
with  the  pleasure  arising  in  his  mere  human  heart  ;  but  that 
world  the  poet  could  purify  and  elevate  at  will  into  a  celestial 
sphere,  still  lightened  by  Scottish  skies,  still  melodious  with 
Scottish  streams,  still  inhabited  by  Scottish  life — sweet  as  reality 
— dear  as  truth — yet  visionary  as  fiction's  dream,  and  felt  to  be 
iu  part  the  work  of  his  own  creation.  Proudly,  therefore,  on 
that  poorest  soil  the  peasant  poet  bade  speed  the  plough — proudly 
he  stooped  his  shoulders  to  the  sack  of  corn,  itself  a  cart-load — 
proudly  he  swept  the  scythe  that  swathed  the  flowery  herbage 
— proudly  he  grasped  the  sickle — but  tenderly  too  he  "  turned 
the  vveeder  clips  aside,  and  spared  the  svvihol  dear." 

Well  was  he  entitled  to  say  10*1115  friend  Aiken,  in  the  dedica- 
tory stanza  of  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night : 

"  My  Icved,  my  honored,  most  respected  friend  ! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homajie  pays; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 
*    My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  prai?fc." 

All  that  he  hoped  to  make  by  the  Kilmarnock  edition  was  iwerty 
pounds  to  carry  him  to  the  West  Indies,  heedless  of  the  velluw 


198  THE  GENIUS  AND 


fever.  At  Edinburgli  fortune  hand  in  hand  with  fame  descended 
on  the  bard  in  a  shower  of  gold  ;  but  he  had  not  courted  "  the 
siuiles  of  the  fickle  goddess,"  and  she. soon  wlieelcd  away  with 
scornful  laughter  out  of  his  sight  for  ever  and  a  day.  His 
poetry  had  been  composed  in  the  fields,  with  not  a  plack  in  the 
pocket  of  the  poet  ;  and  we  verily  believe  that  he  thought  no 
more  of  the  circulating  medium  than  did  the  poor  mouse  in 
whv'sc  fate  he  saw  his  own — but'more  unfortunate  ! 

"  Still  thou  art  blest  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  jirestnt  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But  och  !  1  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  though  I  caiinq,see, 

I  guess  and  year." 

At  Ellfsland  his  colley  bore  on  his  collar,  "  Robert  Burns, 
poet ;"  and  on  his  removal  to  Dumfries,  Ave  know  that  he  in- 
dulged the  dream  of  devoting  all  his  leisure  time  to  poetry — a 
dream  iiow  imperfectly  realiztd  !  Poor  Johnson,  an  old  Edin- 
burgh friend,  begged  in  his  poverty  help«to  iijs  "  Museum,"  and 
Thomson,  not  even  an  old  Edinburgh  acquaintance,  in  his  pride 
— no  ignoble  pride — solicited  it  for  his  "  Collaction  ;"  and  fired 
by  the  thought  of  embellishing  the  body  of  Scottish  song,  he 
spurned  the  gentle  and  guarded  proifer  of  remuneration  in 
money,  and  set  to  work  as  he  had  done  of  yore  in  the  spirit  of 
love,  assured  from  sweet  experience  that  inspiration  was  its  own 
reward.  Sell  a  song  !  as  well  sell  a  wild-flower  plucked  from  a 
spring,  bank  at  sun-rise.  The  one  pervading  feeling  docs  indeed 
expand  itself  in  a  song,  like  a  wild  flower  in  the  breath  and  dew 
of  morning,  which  before  was' hut  a  bud,  and  we  are  touched 
w  iih  a  new  sense  of  beauty  at  the  full  disclosure.  As  a  song 
should  always  be  simple,, the  flower  we  liken  it  to  is  tiie  lily  oi- 
tlie  violet.  The  leaves  of  the  lily  are  white,  but  it  is  not  a 
monotonous  whiteness — the  leaves  of  the  violet,  sometimes  "dim- 
as  the  lids  of  Cvtherea's  eves" — for  Shakspcare  has«aitl  so — 
are,  win  ii  well  and  liap[iy,  blue  as  her  (  yes  themselves,  while 
lhi;y  looked  languishingly  on  Adonis.  Yet  the  exquisite  color 
seems  of  dillerent  shades  in  its  rarest  richness  \  and  even  so  a? 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  190 

lily  or  violet  shiftingly  the  same,  should  he  a  song  in  its  simpli- 
city,  variously  tinged  with  fine  distinctions  of  the  one  color  of 
that  pervading  feeling — now  brighter,  now  dimmer,  as  open  and 
shut  the  valve  of  that  mystery,  the  heart.  Sell  a  song  !  No — 
no — said  Burns — "  You  shall  have  hundreds  for  nothing — and 
we  shall  all  sail  down  the  stream  of  time  togethea",  now  to  merry, 
and  now  to  sorrowful  music,  and  the  dwellers  on  its  banks,  as 
we  glide  by,  shall  bless  us  by  name,  and  call  us  of  the  Immor- 
tals." 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Burns  was  beguiled  by  the  remem- 
brance  of  the  inspirations  of  his  youthful  prime,  into  the  belief 
that  it  would  be  absolutely  sordid  to  write  songs  for  money  ;  and 
thus  he  continued  for  years  to  enrich  others  by  the  choicest  pro» 
ducts  of  his  genius,  himself  remaining  all  the  while,  alas!  too 
poor.  The  richest  man  in  the  town  was  not  more  regular  in  the 
settlement  of  his  accounts,  but  sometimes  on  Saturday  nights  he 
iiad  not  whcrewy,hal  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  week's  subsist- 
ence, and  had  to  borrow  a  pound  note.  He  was  more  ready  to 
lend  one,  and  you  know  he  died  out  of  debt.  But  his  fan)ily 
suffered  privations  it  is  sad  to  think  of — though  to  be  sure  the 
children  were  too  young  to  grieve,  and  soon  fell  asleep,  and 
Jean  was  a  cheerful  creature,  strong  at  heart,  and  proud  of  her 
famous  Robin,  the  Poet  of  Scotland,  whom  the  whole  world  ad- 
mired, but  she  alone  loved,  and  so  far  from  ever  upbraiding  him, 
welcomed  him  at  all  hours  to  her  arms  and  to  her  heart.  It  is 
all  very  fine  talking  about  tiie  delight  he  enjoyed  in  the  compo- 
silion  of  his  matchless  lyrics,  and  the  restoration  of  all  those 
faded  and  broken  songs  of  other  ages,  burnished  by  a  few 
touches  of  bis  hand  to  surpassing  beauty  ;  but  what  we  lament 
is,  that  with  the  Poet  it  was  not  "  No  song,  no  supper,"  but  "  No 
supper  for  any  song" — -that  with  an  infatuation  singular  even 
in  the  history  of  the  poetic  tribe,  he  adhered  to  what  he  had  le- 
solved,  in  the  f^ce  of  distress  which,  had  lie  chosen  it,  he  could 
have  changed  into  comfort,  and  by  merely  doing  so  as  all  others 
did,  have  secured  a  competency  to  his  \\  ife  and  cliildnn.  In- 
fatuation !  It  is  too  strong  a  word — therefore  substitute  some 
other  weaker  in  expression  of  blame — nay,  let  it  be — if  so  you 
will — some  gentle  term  of  praise  and  of  pity  ;   for  in  this  most 


200  THE  GENIUS  AND 


selfish  world,  'tis  so  rare  to  be  of  self  utterly  regardless,  that 
ihe  scorn  of  pelf  may  for  a  moment  be  thought  a  virtue,  even 
when  indulged  to  the  loss  of  the  tenderly  beloved.  Yet  the 
■great  natural  affections  have  their  duties  superior  over  all 
others  between  man  and  man  ;  and  he  who  sets  them  aside,  in 
tlie  generosity  or  the  joy  of  genius,  must  frequently  feel  that  by 
such  dereliction  he  has  become  amenable  to  conscience,  and  iit 
hours  when  enthusiasm  is  tamed  by  reflection,  cannot  escape  tiie 
tooth  of  remorse. 

How  it  would  have  kindled  all  his  highest  powers,  to  have  felt 
assured  that  by  their  exercise  in  the  Poet's  own  vocation  he 
could  not  only  keep  want  from  his  door  "  with  stern  alarum  ban- 
ishing sweet  sleep,"  but  clothe,  lodge,  and  board  "  tiie  wife  and 
weans,'"'  as  sumptuously  as  if  he  had  been  an  absolute  super- 
visor !  In  one  article  alone  was  he  a  man  of  expensive  habits — 
it  was  quite  a  craze  with  him  to  have  his  Jean  di^&sed  genleelly 
— for  she  had  a  fine  figure,  and  as  she  stepped  along  tiie  green, 
you  might  have  taken  the  matron  for  a  maid,  so  light  her  foot,  so 
animated  her  bearing,  as  if  care  had  never  imposed  any  burden 
on  her  not  ungraceful  slioulders  heavier  than  the  milk-pail  she 
had  learned  at  Mossgiel  to  bear  on  her  head.  'Tis  said  that  she 
was  the  first  in  her  rank  at  Dumfries  to  sport  a  gingham  gown, 
and  Burns's  taste  in  ribands  had  been  instructed  by  the  rain- 
bow. To  such  a  pitch  of  extravagance  had  he  carried  his  cnaze 
that  when  dressed  for  church,  Mrs.  Burns,  it  was  conjectured, 
could  not  have  had  on  her  person  much  less  than  the  value  of 
two  pounds  sterling  money,  and  the  boys,  from  their  dress  and 
demeanor,  you  miglit  have  mistaken  for  a  gentleman's  sons. 
Then  he  resolved  they  should  have  the  best  education  going ; 
and  the  lion,  the  Provost,  the  Bailies,  and  Town  Council,  he  pe- 
titioned thus:."Tlie  literary  taste  and  liberal  spirit  of  your'good 
town  have  so  ably  filled  the  various  departments  of  your  schools, 
as  to  make  it  a  very  great  object  for  a  parent  to  have  his  chil- 
dren educated  in  them  ;  still,  to  me  a  stranger,  with  my  large 
family,  and  very  stinted  income,  to  give  my  young  ones  tiiat  edu- 
cation I  wish,  at  the  high  school  fees  which  a  stranger  pays, 
will  bear  hard  upon  me.  Some  years  ago  your  good  town  did 
me  the  honor  of  making  me  an  honorary  burgess,  will  you  then 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  201 


allow  me  to  request,  that  this  mark  of  distinction  may  extend  so 
far  as  to  put  me  on  a  footing  of  a  real  freeman  in  the  schools?" 
Had  not  "  his  income  been  so  stinted,"  we  know  how  he  would 
have  spent  it. 

Then  tlie  world — the  gracious  and  grateful  world — "  wonder- 
ed  and  of  wondering  found  no  end,"  how  and  why  it  happened 
that  Burns  was  publishing  no  more  poems.  What  was  he  about  ? 
Had  his  genius  deserted  him  ?  Was  the  vein  wrought,  out  ?  of 
fine  ore  indeed,  but  thin,  and  now  there  was  but  rubbish.  Hi.< 
contributions  to  Johnson  were  not  much  known,  and  but  some 
six  of  his  songs  in  the  first  half  part  of  Thomson  appeared 
during  his  life.  But  what  if  he  had  himself  given  to  the  world, 
through  the  channel  of  the  regular  trade,  and  for  his  own  be- 
hoof, in  Parts,  or  all  at  once,  Those  Two  Hundred  and  Fifty 
Songs — new  and  old — original  and  restored — with  all  those  dis- 
quisitions, annotations,  and  ever  so  many  more,  themselves  often 
very  poetr.y  indeed — what  would  the  world  have  felt,  thought, 
said,  and  done  then  ?  She  would  at  least  not  have  believed  that 
the  author  of  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night  was — a  drunkard. 
And  what  would  Burns  have  felt,  thought,  said,  and  done  then  ? 
He  would  have  felt  that  he  was  turning  his  divine  gift  to  a  sacred 
purpose — he  would  have  thought  well  of  himself,  and  in  that  just 
apj)reciation  there  would  have  been  peace — he  would  have  said 
thousands  on  thousands  of  high  and  noble  sentiments  in  discourses 
and  in  letters,  with  an  untroubled  voice  and  a  steady  pen,  the 
sweet  persuasive  eloquence  of  the  hap[)y — he  would  have  done 
greater  things  than  it  had  before  entered  into  his  heart  to  con- 
ceive— his  drama  of  the  Bruce  would  have  come  forth  magni- 
ficent from  an  imagination  elevated  l)y  the  joy  that  was  in  his 
heart — his  Scottish  Georgics  would  have  written  themselves, 
and  would  have  been  pure  Virgilian — Tale  upon  Tale,  each  a 
day's  work  or  a  week's,  would  have  taken  the  shine  out  of  Tam 
o'  Shanter. 

And  here  it  is  incumbent  on  us  to  record  our  sentiments  re- 
garding Mr.  Thomson's  conduct  towards  Burns  in  his  worst  e.x- 
trcmit}',  which  has  not  only  been  assailed  by  "anonvmous  scrib- 
biers,"  whom  perhaps  he  may  rightly  regard  with  contempt  ; 
but  as  he  says  in  his  letter  to  our  esteemed  friend,  the  ingenious 


202  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  enprgetic  Robert  Cliumbers,  to  "  his  great  surprise,  by  some 
writers  who  might  have  been  expected  to  possess  sudicient  judg- 
ment to  see  tiie  matter  in  its  true  light." 

Ill  tiift  "  melancholy  letter  received  through  1\Irs  Hyslop,"  as 
Mr.  Thomson  well  calls  it,  dated  April,  Burns  writes,  "  Alas! 
my  dear  Thomson,  I  fear  it  will  be  some  time  before  I  tune  my 
lyre  again.  '  By  Babel  streams  I  have  sat  and  wept,'  almost 
ever  since  I  wrote  you  last  (in  February,  when  he  thanked   Mr. 

Thomson  for  '  a  handsome  elegant  present  to  Mrs.  B ,'  we 

believe  a  worsted  shawl).  I  have  only  knovvn  existence  by  the 
pressure  of  the  heavy  hand  of  sickness,  and  have  counted  time 
but  by  the  repercussions  of  pain.  Rheumatism,  cold,  and  fever, 
have  formed  to  me  a  terrible  combination.  I  close  my  eyes  in 
misery,  and  open  them  without  hope."  In  his  answer  to  that 
Utter,  dated  4lh  May,  Mr.  Thomson  writes,  "I  need  not  tell 
you,  my  good  sir,  what  concern  your  last  gave  me,  and  how 
much  1  sympathize  in  your  sufferings.  But  do  not,  I  beseech 
you,  give  yourself  up  to  despondency,  nor  speak  the  language  of 
despair.  The  vigor  of  your  constitution,  I  trust,  will  soon  set 
you  on  your  feet  again  ;  and  then  it  is  to  he.  hoped  you  will  see 
the  wisdom  of  taking  due  care  of  a  life  so  vaiuahh  to  your  fami'y, 
to  your  friends,  and  to  the  world.  Trusting  that  your  next  will 
bring  agreeable  accounts  of  your  convali  scence,  and  good  spiiits, 
I  remain  with  sincere  regard,  yours."  This  is  kind  as  it  should 
be  ;  and  the  advice  given  to  Burns  is  good,  though  perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  it  might  just  as  well  have  been  spared. 
In  a  subsequent  letter  without  date.  Burns  writes,  "  I  have  great 
hopes  that  the  genial  influence  of  the  approaching  summer  will 
set  me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I  cannot  boast  of  returning  health. 
1  have  now  reason  to  believe  that  my  complaint  is  a  flving  gout  ; 
a  sad  business."  Then  comes  that  most  heart-rendinjj  letter,  in 
which  the  dying  Burns,  in  terror  of  a  jail,  implores  the  oan  of 
five  pounds — and  the  well-known  re[)ly.  "  Ever  since  1  received 
voiir  melaneholv  letter  by  Mrs.  Ilvslop,  I  have  been  ruminaliuir 
in  what  manner  1  ('(Hihi  endeavor  to  alleviate  your  snfl^crings,'' 
und  so  f)ii.  Shorter  riniiimition  than  of  iJirre  months  nn'ght,  one 
would  think,  have  sullieed  to  mature  some  plan  lor  the  alleviation 
of  such  suflerings,  and  human  ingen  li'iy  has  been  more  scverclv 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  203 

taxed  than  it  would  have  bee-n  in  devising  means  to  carry  it  into 
effect.  The  reoollectiun  of  a  letter  written  three  years  before, 
when  the  Poet  \\  as  in  high  healtii  and  s -irits,  needed  not  to  have 
stayed  his  hand.  "  The  fear  of  offending  your  independent 
spirit,"  seems  a  bugbear  indeed.  "  With  great  pleasure  I 
enclose  a  draft  for  the  very  sum  I  luid  proposed  sending ! ! 
Would  I  were  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  but  for  one  day 
for  your  sake  ! !  !  "^ 

Josiah  Walker,  however,  to  whom  Mr.  Thomson  gratefully 
refers,  says,  "  a  iew  days  before  Burns  expired,  he  applied  to 
Mr.  Thomson  for  a  loan  of  £5,  in  a  note  which  showed  the  irri- 
table and  distracted  state  of  his  mind,  and  his  commendable 
judgment  instantly  remitted  the  precise  sum,  foreseeing  that  had 
he,  at  that  moment,  presumed  to  exceed  that  request,  he  would 
have  exasperated  the  irritation  and  resentment  of  the  haughty 
invalid,  and  done  him  more  injury,  by  agitating  his  passions,than 
could  be  repaired  by  administering  more  largely  to  his  wants." 
Haughty  invalid!  x\las  !  he  was  humble  enough  now.  "  After 
all  my  boasted  independence,  stern  necessity  compels  me  to  implore 
you  for  jive  pounds/"  Call  not  that  a  pang  of  pride.  It  is  the 
outcry  of  a  wounded  spirit  slirinking  from  tiie  last  worst  arrow 
of  affliction.  In  one  breath  he  implores  succor  and  forgiveness 
from  the  man  to  whom  he  had  been  a  benefactor.  "  Forgive  me 
this  earnestness — but  the* horrors  of  a  jail  have  made  me  half 
distracted.  Forgive  me  !  Forgive  me  !  "  He  asks  no  gift — he 
but  begs  10  borrow — and  trusts  to  the  genius  God  iiad  given  him 
for  ability  to  repay  the  loan  ;  nay,  he  encloses  his  last  song, 
"  Fairest  Maid  on  Devon's  banks,"  as  in  part  payment!  But 
oh  !  save  Robert  Burns  from  dying  in  prison.  What  hauteur! 
And  with  so  "  haughty  an  invalid,"  how  shall  a  musical  brother 
deal,  so  as  not  "  to"  exasperate  his  irritation  and  resentment," 
and  do  him  "  more  injury  by  agitating  his  passions,  than  could 
be  repaired  by  administering  more  largely  to  his  wants  ?  More 
largely  !  Faugh  !  faugh  !  Foreseeing  that  he  who  was  half- 
mad  at  the  horrors  of  a  jail,  would  go  wholly  mad  were  ten 
pounds  sent  to  him  instead  of  five,  which  was  all  "  the  haughty 
invalid  "  had  implored,  "  with  commendable  judgment,"  ac(;ord. 
ing  to  Josiah  Walker's  philosophy  of  human  life,  George  Thorn- 

18 


201  THE  GENIUS  AND 


son  sent  "  the  precise  sum  !"  And  supposing  it  had  gone  into 
the  poclict  of  the  merciless  haberdasher,  on  what  did  Josiah 
Walker  think  would  "the  haughty  invalid"  have  subsisted  then 
— how  paid  for  lodging  without  board  by  the  melancholy  Sol- 
way-side  ? 

Mr.  Thomson's  champion  proceeds  to  say — "  Burns  had  all 
the  unmanageable  pride  of  Samuel  Johnson,  and  if  the  latler 
threw  away  with  indignation  the  new  shoes  ivhigh  had  been  placed 
at  his  chamber  door,  secretly  and  collectively  by  his  companions, 
tiie  former  would  have  been  still  more  ready  to  resent  any  pecu- 
niary donation  which  a  single  individual,  after  his  peremp- 
tory prohibition,  should  avowedly  have  dai-ed  to  insult  him  with." 
In  Boswell  we  read — "  Mr.  Bateman's  lectures  were  so  excellent 
that  Johnson  used  to  come  and  get  them  at  socond-hand  from 
Taylor,  till  his  poverty  being  so  extreme,  that  his  shoes  were 
worn  but,  and  his  feet  appeared  through  them,  he  saw  that  his 
humiliating  condition  was  perceived  by  the  Christ-Church  men, 
and  he  came  no  more.  He  was  too  proud  to  accept  of  money, 
and  somebody  having  set  a  pair  of  new  shoes  at  his  door,  he 
threw  them  away  with  indignation."  Hall,  Master  of  Pem- 
broke, in  a  note  on  this  passage,  expresses  strong  doubts  of 
Johnson's  poverty  at  college  having  been  extreme  ;  and  Croker, 
with  his  usual  accuracy,  says,  "authoritatively  and  circumstan- 
tially as  this  story  is  told,  there  is  good  reason  for  disbelieving  it 
altogether.  Taylor  was  admitted  Commoner  of  Christ-Church, 
June  27,  1720  ;  Johnson  left  Oxford  six  months  before."  Sup- 
pose it  true.  Had  Johnson  found  the  impudfnt  cub  in  the  act  of 
depositing  the  eleemosynary  sliocs,  he  infallibly  would  have 
knocked  him  down  with  fist  or  folio  as  clean  as  he  afterwards  did 
Osborne.  But  Mr.  Thomson  was  no  such  cub,  nor  did  he  stand 
relatively  to  Burns  in  the  same  position  as  such  cub  to  Johnson. 
He  owed  Burns  much  money — though  Burns  would  not  allow 
himself  to  think  so  ;  and  had  he  expostulated,  with  open  heart 
and  hand,  with  the  Bard  on  his  obstinate — he  misht  have  kindlv 

said  foolish  and  wor^e  than  foolish  disrecard  not  only  of  his  own 

r 
interest,  but  of  the  comfort  of  his  wife  and  family — had  he  gone 

to  Dumfries  for  the  sole  purpose — who*  can  doubt  that  "  his  jus- 
tice and  generosity  "  would  have  Deen  crowned  with  success  ? 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  205 


Who  but  Josiah  Walker  could  have  said,  that  Burns  would 
have  then  thought  himself  insulted  ?  Resent  a  "pecuniary 
donation"  indeed!  What  is  a  donation?  Johnson  tells  us  in 
the  words  of  South  ;  "  After  donation  there  is  an  absolute  change 
and  alienation  made  of  the  property  of  the  thing  given  ;  which, 
being  alienated,  a  man  has  no  more  to  do  with  .it  than  with  a 
thing  bought  with  another's  monev."  It  was  Burns  who  made  a 
donation  to  Thomson  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  songs. 

All  mankind  must  agree  with  Mr.  Lockhart  when  he  says — 
"  W'hy  Burns,  who  was  of  opinion,  when  he  wrote  his  letter  to 
Mr.  Carfrae,  that '  no  profits  were  more  honorable  than  those  of 
the  labors  of  a  man  of  genius,'  and  whose  own  notions  of  inde- 
pendence had  sustained  no  shock  in    the  receipt  of  hundreds  of 
pounds  from  Creech,  should  have  spurned  the  suggestion  of  pe- 
cuniary recompense  from  Mr.  Thomson,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to 
explain  ;   nor  do  I  profess  to  understand  why  Mr.  Thomson  took 
so  little  pains  to  argue  the  matter  in  limine  with   the  poet,  and 
convince  him  t'.iat  the  time  which  he  himself  considered  as  fairly 
entitled  to  be- paid  for  by  a  common  bookseller,  ought  of  right  to 
be  vSlued   and  acknowledged   by  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  a 
book  containing  both  songs  and  music."     We  are  not  so  much 
blaming  tiie  backwardness  of  Thomson  in  the  matter  of  the  songs, 
as   we   are  exposing  the  blather  of  Walker  in  the  story  of  the 
shoes.     Yet  something  there  is  in  the  nature  of  the  whole  trans- 
action tiiat  nobody  can  stomach.     We  think  we  have  in  a  great 
m<  asure    explained   how  it  iiappcned   that  Burns  "  spurned  tiie- 
suggestion  of  pecuniary  recompense  ;"  and  bearing  our  remarks 
in  mind,  look   for  a  moment  at  tlie  circumstances  of  the  case. 
I\Ir.  Thomson,  in  his  first  letter,  September,  1792,  says,  '^Profit 
is  quite  a  secondary  consideration  ivith  us,  and  we  are  resolved  to 
spare  neither   pains    nor   expense   on   the    publication."     "  We 
shall  esteem  your  poetical  assistance  a  particular  favor,  besides 
paying  any  reasonable  price   you  shall   please  demand   for  it." 
And  would   Robert  Burns  condescend  to   receive  money  for  his 
contributions  to  a  work  in  honor  of  Scotland,  undertaken  by  men 
with  whom  "  profit  was  quite  a  secondary  consideration?"  ,  lin 
jiossible.     In  .fuly,  1793,  when  Burns  had  been  for  nine  months 
entliusiastically  co-operating  in  a  great  national  work,  and   hail 


206  THE  GENIUS  AND 


proved  that  he  would  carry  it  on  to  a  triumphant  close,  Mr. 
Thomson  writes — "  I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  obliged  to 
you  fur  the  exquisite  new  songs  you  are  sending  me  ;  but  thanks, 
my  friend,  are  a  poor  return  for  what  you  have  done.  As  I 
shall  be  benefited  by  the  publication,  you  must  suffer  me  to  in- 
close a  small  mariv  of  my  gratitude,  and  to  repeat  it  afterwards 
when  I  find  it  convanient.  Do  not  return  it — for  by  heaven  if 
you  do,  our  correspondence  is  at  an  end.''  A  bank-note  for  five 
pounds  !  "  In  the  name  of  the  prophet — Figs  !  Burns,  with  a 
proper  feeling,  retained  the  trifle,  but  forbad  the  repetition  of  it ; 
and  evej'ybody  must  see,  at  a  glance,  that  such  a  man  could  not 
have  done  otherwise — for  it  would  have  been  most  degrading  in- 
deed had  he  shown  himself  ready  to  accept  a  five  pound  note 
when  it  might  happen  to  suit  the  convenience  of  an  Editor.  His 
domicile  was  not  in  Grub-street. 

Mr.  Walker,  still  further  to  soothe  Mr.  Tiiomson's  feelings, 
sent  him  an  extract  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Woodliouselee's — "  I 
am  glad  liiat  you  have  embraced  the  occasion  which  lay  in  your 
way  of  doing  full  justice  to  Mr.  George  Thomson,  who  I  agree 
with  you  in  thinking,  was  most  harshly  and  illiberally  treated  by 
an  anonymous  dull  calumniator.  I  have  always  regarded  Mr. 
Thomson  as  a  man  of  great  worth  and  most  respectable  charac- 
ter ;  ami  1  have  every  reason  to  bolieve  that  poor  Burns  felt 
hunself  as  much  indebted,  to  his  good  counsels  and  active  friend- 
skip  as  a  man,  as  the  public  is  sensible  he  was  to  his  good  taste  and 
judgment  as  a  critic."  Mr.  Thomson,  in  now  giving,  for  the  first 
time,  this  extract  to  the  public,  says,  "  Of  the  unbiassed  opinion 
of  such  a  highly  respectable  gentleman  and  accomplished  wri- 
ter  as  Lord  Woodhousclee,  I  certainly  feel  not  a  little  proud. 
It  is  of  itself  naore  than  sufficient  to  silence  the  calumnies  by 
which  I  have  boon  assailed,  first  anonymously,  and  afterwards, 
to  my  great  surprise,  Ijy  some  writers  who  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  possess  suflicicnt  judgment  to  see  the  matter  in  its  true 
light."  He  has  reason  to  feel  proud  of  his  .Lordship's  good  opi- 
nion, and  on  the  ground  of  his  private  character  he  deserved  it. 
But  the  assertions  contained  in  the  extract  have  no  bearing 
whatever  on  the  question,  and  they  are  entirely  untrue.  Lord 
Woodfiouselee  could  have  had  no  authority  lor  believing,  "  that 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  207 

poor  Burns  felt  himself  indebted  to  Mr.  Thomson's  good  counsels 
and  active  friendship  as  a  man."  Mr.  Thomson,  a  person  of  no 
influence  or  account,  had  it  not  in  iiis  power  to  exert  any  "  active 
friendship  "  for  Burns — and  as  to  "  good  counsels,"  it  is  not  to  be 
believed  for  a  moment,  that  a  modest  man  like  him,  who  had 
never  interchanged  a  word  with  Burns,  would  have  presumed 
to  become  liis  Mentor.  This  is  putting  hin)  forward  in  the  high 
character  of  Burns's  benefactor,  not  only  in  his  worldly  con- 
cerns, but  in  his  moral  well-being  ;  a  position  which  of  himself 
he  never  could  have  dreamt  of  claimino;,  and  from  which  h^ 
must,  on  a  moment's  consideration,  with  pain  inexpressible  re- 
coil. Neither  is  "  the  public  sensible  "  that  Burns  was  "  indebt- 
ed to  his  good  taste  and  judgment  as  a  critic."  The  public 
kindly  regard  Mr.  Thomson,  and  think  that  in  his  correspondence 
with  Burns  he  makes  a  respectable  figure.  But  Burns  repudi- 
ated most  of  his  critical  strictures;  and  the  worthy  Clerk  of 
the  Board  of  Trustees  does  indeed  frequently  fall  into  sad  mis- 
takes, concerning  alike  poetry,  music,  and  painting.  Lord 
Woodhouselee's  "unbiassed  opinion,"  then,  so  far  from  being  of 
itself  "  suflicicnt  to  silence  the  calumnies  of  ignorant  assailants, 
&c.,"  is  not  worth  a  straw. 

'Mr.  Thomson,  in  his  five  pound  letter,  asks — "Pray,  my  good 
sir,  is  it  not  possible  for  you  to  muster  a  volume  of  poetry  ?"  Why, 
with  the  assistance  of  Messrs.  Johnson  and  Thomson,  it  would 
have  been  possible  ;  and  then  Burns  might  have  called  in  his 
"Jolly  Beggars."  "If  too  much,  trouble  to  you,"  continues 
Mr.  Thomson,  "  in  the  present  state  of  your  health,  some  literary 
friend  might  be  found  here  who  would  select  and  arrange  your 
manuscripts,  and  take  upon  iiim  the  task  of  editor.  In  the 
meantime,  it  could  be  advertised  to  be  published  by  subscrip- 
tion.  Do  not  sliun  this  mode  of  obtaining  the  value  of  your 
labor  ;  remember  Pope  published  the  Iliad  by  subscription." 
Why,  had  not  Burns  published  his  own  poems  by  subscriplion  ! 
All  this  seems  the*  strangest  mockery  ever  hoariiof;  yet  thert; 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  written  not  only  with  a  serious  face, 
but  with  a  kind  heart.  But  George  Thomson  at  that  time  was 
almost  as   poor  a  man  as  Robert  Burns.      Allan  Cuninghame,  a 

man  of  genius  and  virtue,  in  his  interesting  Life  of  Burns,  has  iu 

18* 


203  THE  GENIUS  ^ND 


liis  characteristic  straight- forward-  slyle  put  the  matter — in  as 
Car  as  regards  the  money  remittance — in  its  true  light,  and  all 
Mr.  Thomson's  friends  should  he  thankful  to  him — "Thomson 
instantly  complied  with  the  request  of  Burns;  he  borrowed  a 
five-pound  note  from  Cunningham  (a  draft),  and  sent  it  saying, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  inclose  the  identical  sum  the  poet 
had  asked  for,  when  he  received  his  letter.  For  this  he  has 
been  sh-arply  censured  ;  and  his  defence  is,  that  he  was  afraid  o! 
sending  more,  lest  he  should  offend  the  pride  of  the  poet,  who 
was  uncommonly  sensitive  in  pecuniary  matters.  A  better  de- 
fence is  Thomson's  own  poverty  ;  only  one  volume  of  his  splen- 
did work  was  then  published  ;  his  outlay  had  been  beyond  his 
means,  and  very  small  sums  of  money  had  come  in  to  cover  his 
large  expenditure.  Had  he  been  richer,his  defence  would  have 
been  a  difficult  matter.  When  Burns  made  the  stipulation,  his 
hopes  were  high,  and  the  dread  of  hunger  or  of  the  jail  was  far 
from  his  thoughts ;  he  imagined  that  it  became  genius  to  refuse 
money  in  a  work  of  national  importance.  But  his  situation 
grew  gloomier  as  he  wrote  ;  he  had  lost  nearly  his  all  in  Ellis- 
land,  and  was  obliged  to  borrow  small  sums,  which  he  found  a 
difficulty  in  repaying.*  That  he  was  in  poor  circumstances  was 
well  known  to  the  world;  and  had  money  been  at  Thomson's 
disposal,  a  way  might  have  been  found  of  doing  the  poet  good  by 
stealth  :  he  sent  five  pounds,  because  he  could  iwt  send  ten,  and 
it  would  have  saved  him  from  some  sarcastic  remarks,  and  some 
j)ungs  of  heart,  had  he  said  so  at  once." 

Mr.  Thomson  has  attempted  a  defence  of  himself  about  once 
every  seven  years,  but  has  always  made  the  matter  worse,  by 
putting  it  on  wrong  grounds.  In  a  letter  to  that  other  Arcadian, 
Josiah  Walker,  he  says — many  years  ago — "Now,  the  fact  is, 
that  notwithstanding  the  united  labors  of  all  the  men  of  genigs 
who  have  enriched  my  Collection,  I  am  not  even  yd  comjjeiisated 
lor  the  precious  time  consumed  by  me  in  poring  over  7mts1y  vo- 
Itimrs,  and  in  oorrespondivg  wilJi  every  aninleur  and  poet,  by  whose 
means  I  expected  to  make  any  valuable  addition  to  our  national 
music  and  song  ; — -for  the  exertion  and  money  it  coat  me  to  obtain 
aceonjpaniinonts  from  the  greatest  masters  of  harmony  in  Vien- 
uo  ;  and  for  the  sums  paid  to  engravers,  printers,  and  others.' 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  20<> 

Let  us  separate  the  items  of  this  accouift.    The  money  laid  out 
by  him  must  stand  by  itself — and  for  that  outlay,  he  had  tiien 
been   compensated    by  the  profits  of  the  sale  of  the  Collection. 
Those  profits,  we  do  not  doubt,  had  been  much  exao;gerated  by 
public  opinion,  but   they  had  then   been  considerable  and   have 
since' been   sreat.    Our  undivided   attention   has  therefore  to  be 
turni-d  to  "  his  precious  time  consumed,"  and  to  its  inacfequate 
compensation.     And    the  first  question  that  naturally  occurs  to 
every  reader  to  ask  himself  is — "  in  what  sense  are  we  to  take 
the  terms  '  time,'  '  precious,'  and  '  consumed  V  "    Inasmuch  as 
"  time  "  is  only  another  word  for  life,  it  is  equally  "  precious"  to 
all  men.    Take  it  then  to  mean  leisure  hours,  in  which  nsen  seek 
for  relaxation  and  enjoyment.    Mr.  Thomson  tells  us  that  he  was, 
from  earlv  youth,  an  enthusiast  in  music  and  in  poetry  ;   and  it 
puzzles  us  to  c(?hceive  what  he  means  by  talking  of  "  his  precious 
time  being  consumed"  in  such  studies.     To  an  entliusiast,  a 
"musty  volume"  is  a  treasure   beyond  the  wealth  of  Ind — to 
pore  over  "  musty  volumes  "  sweet  as  to  gaze  on  melting  eyes — 
he  hugs  them  to  his  heart.     They  are  their  own  exceedinj;  ijreat 
reward — and  we  cannot  listen  to  any  claim  for  pecuniary  com- 
pensation.   Then  who  ever  heard,  before  or  since,  of  an  enthu- 
siast in   poetry  avowing  before  the  world,  that  he  had  not  been 
sufficiently  compensated  in   money,  "  for  the  precious  time  con- 
sumed by  him  in  corresponding  with  Poets  ?  "    Poets  are  prover- 
bially an  irritable  race  ;  still  there  is  something  about  them  that 
makes  them  very  engaging; — and  we  cannot  bring  oursetves  to 
think  that  George  Thomson's  "  precious  time  consumed"  in  cor- 
responding with  Sir    Walter  Scott,  'I'homas  Campbell,  Joanna 
Baillie,  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  deserved  "  compensatioq."  Aa 
to  amateurs,  we  mournfuU^rgrant  they  are  burthensome  ;   yet 
even  that  burtiien  may  uncomplainingly  be  borne  by  an  Editor 
who  "  expects  by  their  means  to  make  any  valuable  addition  to 
our  national  music  and  song  ;"  and  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  the 
creatures   have  often  good  ears,  and  turn  off  tolerable  verses. 
F'inally,  if  by  "  precious  "  he  means  valuable,  in  a  Politico  Eco, 
nomical  sense,  we  do  not  se^  how  !\Ir.  Thomson's  time  could  iuivo 
been  consumed  more  productively  to  himself  ;   nor  indeed  how  he 
could  have  made  any  money  at  all  by  a  ditiercnt  employment  of 


210  THE  GENIUS  AND 


it,  In  every  sense,  therefore,  in  which  the  words  are  construed, 
they  are  equally  absurd  ;  and  all  who  read  them  are  forced  to 
think  of  one  whose  ''  precious  time  was  indeed  consumed  " — to 
Lis  fatal  loss — the  too  generous,  the  self-devoted  Burns — but  for 
whose  "  uncompensated  exertions,"  "  The  Melodies  of  Scotland  " 
would  have  been  to  the  Editor  a  ruinous  concern,  in  place  ol'' one 
which  for  nearly  half  a  century  must  have  been  yielding  him  a 
greater  annual  income  than  the  Poet  would  have  enjoyed  had  he 
been  even  a  Supervisor. 

Mr.  Thomson  has  further  put  forth  in  his  letter  to  Robert  Chal- 
mers, and  not  now  for  the  first  time,  this  most  injudicious  defence. 
"  Had  I  been  a  selfish  or  avaricious  man,  I  had  a  fair  opportuni- 
ty, upon  the  death  of  the  poet,  to  put  money  in  my  pocket ;  for 
1  might  then  have  published,  for  my  own  behoof,  all  the  beauti- 
ful lyrics  he  had  written  forme,  the  original  manuscripts  of  which 
were  in  my  possession.  But  instead  of  doing  this,  I  was  no 
sooner  informed  that  the  friends  of  the  poet's  family  had  come  to 
a  resolution  to  collect  iiis  works,  and  to  publish  them,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  family,  and  that  they  thought  it  of  importance  to 
include  my  MSS.  as  being  likely,  from  their  number,  their  novel- 
ty, and  their  beauty,  to  prove  an  attraction  to  subscribers,  than  I 
felt  it  my  duty  to  put  them  at  once  in  possession  of  all  the  songs, 
and  of  the  correspondence  between  the  poet  and  myself;  and 
accordingly,  through  Mr.  John  Syme  of  Ryedale,  I  transmitted 
the  whole  to  Dr.  Currie,  who  had  been  prevailed  on,  immensely 
to  the  (idvantage  of  Mrs.  Burns  and  her  children,  to  take  on  him- 
self the  task  of  editor.  For  this  surrendering  the  manuscripts, 
I  received  both  verbally  an<l  in  wi'iiing,  the  warm  thanks  of  the 
trustees  for  the  family — Mi  Jjhn  Svme  and  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns 
— who  considered  wiiat  ]  tiad  done  as  a  fair  return  for  the  poet's 
generosity  of  ctfnduct  to  me."  Of  course  he  retained  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  pul)lisliiiig  the  .songs  with  the  music  in  his  Collec- 
tion. Now,  what  if  he  had  refused  to  surrender  the  manuscripts? 
'J'hc  whole  world  would  have  accused  him  of  robbing  the  \\  idow 
and  orphan,  urid  ho  would  have  been  hooted  out  of  Scotland. 
(Jeorge  'I'homson,  rather  than  have  (ftne  so,  would  have  suflTered 
himself  to  be  pressed  to  deatli  between  two  mill-stones  ;  and  yet 
he  not  only  instances  his  liaving  "surrendered  the   MSS.  as  a 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  211 

proof  of  the  calumnious  nature  of  the  abuse  with  which- he  had 
been  assailed  by  anonymous  scribblers,  but  is  proud  of  the  thanks 
of  "  the  trustees-of  the  family,  who  considered  what  I  had  done 
as  a.  fair  return  for  the  poet's  generosity  of  conduct  to  me." 
Setting  aside,  then,  "the  calumnies  of  anonymous  scribblers," 
with  one  and  all  of  which  we  are  unacquainted,  we  have  shown 
that  Josiah  Walker^  in  his  foolish  remarks  on  this  affair,  whereby 
he  outraged  the  common  feelings  of  humanity,  left  his  friend  just 
where  he  stood  before — that  Lord  Woodhouselee  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  the  matter,  and  in  his  good  nature  has  made  as- 
sertions absurdly  untrue — that  Mr.  Thomson's  own  defence  of 
himself  is  in  all  respects  an  utter  failure,  and  mainly  depends  on 
the  supposition  of  a  case  unexampled  in  a  Christian  land — that 
Lockhart  with  unerring  finger  has  indicated  where  the  fault  lav — 
and  that  Cuninghame  has  accounted  for  it  by  a  reason  that  with 
candid  judges  must  serve  to  reduce  it  to  one  of  a  very  pardona- 
ble kind  ;  the  avowal  of  which  from  the  first,  would  have  saved  a 
worthy  man  from  some  unjust  obloquy,  and  at  least  as  much  unde- 
served commendation — the  truth  being  now  apparent  to'  all.  ihut 
"  his  poverty,  not  his  will,  consented  "  to  secure  on  the  terms  of 
non-payment,  a  hundred  and  twenty  songs  from  the'^reatest 
lyrical  poet  of  his  country,  who  during  the  years  he  was  thus  lav- 
ishing away  the  effusions  of  his  matchless  genius,  without  fee  or 
reward,  was  in  a  state  bordering  on  destitution,  and  as  the  pen 
dropt  from  his  hand,  did  not  leave  sufficient  to  defray  the  e.xpen- 
ses  of  a  decent  funeral. 

We  come  now  to  contemplate  his  dying  days  ;  and  mournful 
as  the  contemplation  is,  tiie  close  of  many  an  illustrious  life  has 
been  far  more  distressing,  involved  in  far  thicker  darkness,  and 
fdv  heavier  storms.  From  youth  he  had  been  visited — we  shall 
not  say  haunted — by  presentiments  of  an  early  d(  alh  ;  he  knew 
well  that  the  profound  melanclioly  that  oficn  settled  down  upon 
his  wiiole  being,  suddenly  changing  day  into  night,  arose  from 
his  organization  ; — and  it  seems  as  if  the  finest  still  bordered  on 
disease — disease  in  his  case  perhaps  hereditary — for  his  fatlier 
was  often  sadder  than  even  "  the  twil- worn  cottar  "  needed  to  be 
a-id  looked  like  a  man  subject  to  inward  trouble.  His  character 
was  somewhat  stern  ;  and  we  can  believe  that  in  its  austerity  he 


212  THE  GENIUS  AND 


found  a  safeguard  against  passion,  that  nevertheless  may  shako 
the  lifu  it  cannot  wreck.  But  the  son  wanted  the  fatlier's  firm- 
ness;  and  in  his  veins  there  coursed  more  impetuous  bU>od.  Tlio 
very  tire  of  genius  consumed  him,  coming  and  going  in  lit- 
ful  flashes  ;  his  genius  itself  may  almost  be  called  a  passion,  so 
vilu-mcnt  was  it,  and  so  turbulent — though  it  had  its  scenes  of 
blissful  quietude  ;  his  heart  too  seldom  suffered  itself  to  be  at 
rest ;  many  a  fever  travelled  through  his  veins  ;  his  calmest 
nights  were  liable  to  be  broken  in  upon  by  the  worst  of  dreams — 
wakintT  dreams  from  which  there  is  no  deliverance  in  a  sudden 
start — of  which  the  misery  is  felt  to  be  no  delusion — which  are 
not  dispelled  by  the  morning  light,  but  accompany  their  victim 
as  he  walks  out  into  the  day,  and  among  the  dew,  and.  surround- 
ed as  he  is  with  the  beauty  of  rejoicing  nature,  tempt  him  to 
curse  the  day  he  was  born. 

Yet  let  us  not  call  the  life  of  Burns  unhappy — nor  at  its  close 
shut  our  eyes  to  the  manifold  blessings  showered  by  heaven  on 
the  Poet's  lot.  Many  of  the  mental  suflerings  that  helped  most 
to  wear  him  out,  originated  in  his  own  restless  nature — "  by  pru- 
dent, cautious,  self-control  "  he  might  have  subdued  some  and 
temper^  others — better  regulation  was  within  his  power — and, 
like  all  men,  he  paid  the  penalty  of  neglect  of  duty,  or  of  it!& 
violation.  But  what  loss  is  hardest  to  bear?  The  loss  of  the 
beloved.  All  other  wounds  are  slight  to  those  of  the  affections. 
Let  Fortune  do  her  worst — so  that  Death  be  merciful.  Burns 
went  to  his  own  grave  without  having  been  commanded  to  look 
down  into  another's  whore  all  was  buried.  "  1  have  latelydrunk 
deep  of  the  cup  of  aflliction.  The  autumn  robbed  me  of  my 
only  daughter  and  darling  child,  and  that  at  a  distance  too,  and 
so  rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  pay  the  last  duties  to 
her."  The  flower  withered,  and  he  wept — but  his  four  pretty 
boys  were  soon  dancing  again  in  their  glee — their  mother's  heart 
was  soon  c()m[)osed  again  to  cheerfuhjcss — -and  her  face  without 
a  sliadow.  Anxiety  for  their  sakes  did  indeed  keep  preying  on 
his  heart ; — .hut  wliat  would  that  anxiety  have  seemed  to  liini, 
had  he  been  called  upon  to  look  back  upon  it  in  anguish  because 
thcij  iverc  not?     Happiness  too  great  for  this  earth!     If  in  a 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  213 


dream  for  one  short  hour  restored,  that  would  have  been  like  an 
hour  in  heaven. 

Burns  had  not  been  well  for  a  twelvemonth  ;  and  though  no- 
body seems  even  then  to  have  thought  him  dying,  on  the  return 
of  spring,  which  brought  him  no  strength,  he  knew  that  his  days 
were  numbered.  Intense  thought,  so  it  be  calm,  is  salutary  to 
life.  It  is  emotion  that  shortens  our  days  by  hurrying  life's  pul- 
sations— till  the  heart  can  no  more,  and  runs  down  like  a  disor- 
dered time-piece.  We  said  nobody  seems  to  have  thought  him 
jyintr; — yet  after  the  event  everybody,  on  looking  back  on  it, 
remembered  seeing  death  in  his  face.  It  is  when  thinking  of 
those  many  months  of  decline  and  decay,  that  we  feel  pity  and 
sorrow  for  his  fate,  and  that  along  with  them  other  emotions  will 
arise,  without  our  well  knowing  towards  whom,  or  by  what  name 
they  should  be  called,  but  partaking  of  indignation,  and  shame, 
and  reproach,  as  if  some  great  wrong  had  been  done,  and  might 
have  been  rectified  before  death  came  to  close  the  account.  Not 
without  blame  somewhere  could  such  a  man  have  been  so  neg- 
lected— so  forgotten — so  left  alone  to  sicken  and  die. 

"  Oh,  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil, 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  heaven  is  sent !  • 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content !" 

No  son  of  Scotland  did  ever  regard  her  with  more  fiilial  affec- 
tion— did  ever  in  strains  so  sweet  sing  of  thescenes  "  tiiat  make 
her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad  " — and  yet  his  mother 
stretched  not  out  her  hand  to  sustain — when  it  was  too  late  to 
save — her  own  Poet  as  he  was  sinking  into  an  untimely  grave. 
But  the  dying  man  complained  not  of  her  ingratitude — he  loved 
her  loo  well  to  the  last  to  suspect  her  of  such  sin — there  was 
nothini''  for  him  to  forgive — and  he  knew  that  he  would  have  a 
.place  for  ever  in  her  memory.  Her  rulers  were  occupied  with 
great  concerns — in  which  all.  thoughts  of  self  were  merged  f  and 
therefore  well  might  they  forget  her  Poet,  who  was  but  a  cottar's 
son  and  a  ganger.  In  sifch  forgetfulness  they  were  what  other 
rulers  have  been,  and  will  be, — and  Coleridge  lived  to  know  that 
the  great  ones  of  his  own  land  could  be  as  heartless  in  his  own 


214  THE  GENTUS  AND 


case  as  the  '"Scotch  nobiKty  "  in  tliat  of  Burns,  ior«'hose  ferows 
his  voiitliful  fjenius  wove  a  wreath  of  scorn.  "  The  rapt  one  of 
tlic  orudlike  forehead,  uie  tieaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth" — 
hut  ^^^o  airioiig  them  cared  for  the  long  self-seclusion  of  the 
vviiite-iieaded  sage — for  his  sick  bed,  or  iiis  grave? 

Turn  wc  tiien  froir  the  Impersonation  named  Scotland — from 
luM"  rulers — fj'om  her  nobility  and  gentry — to  tiie  personal 
friends  of  Burns.  Could  they  have  served  him  in  his  straits  ? 
And  how  ?  If  they  could,  then  were  they  bound  to  do  so  by  a 
•stricter  obligation  than  lay  upon  any  other  party  ;  and  if  they 
had  tlie  will  as  well  as  the  power,  'twould  have  been  easy  to  find 
a  way.  The  duties  of  friendship  are  plain,  simple,  sacred — 
and  to  perform  them  is  delightful  ;  yet,  so  far  as  we  can  see, 
they  were  not  performed  iiere — if  they  were,  let  us  have  the 
names  of  the  beneficent  who  visited  Burns  every  other  day  dur- 
ing the  months  disease  had  deprived  him  of  all  power  to  follow 
his  calling?  Who  insisted  on  helping  to  keep  the  family  in 
comfort  till  his  strength  might  be  restored  ?  For  exam])le,  to 
pay  his  house  refit  for  a  year?  Mr.  Syme,  of  Ryedale,  told 
Dr.  Currie,  that  Burns  had  "  many  firm  friends  in  Dumfries," 
who  would  not  have  suffered  the  haberdasher  to  put  him  into 
jail,  and  that  his  were  the  fears  of  a  man  in  delirium.  Did  not 
those  "  linn  fiiends  "  know  that  he  was  of  necessity  very  poor  ? 
And  did  any  one  of  them  ofTor  to  lend  him, thirty  shillings  to 
pay  for  his  three  weeks'  lodgings  at  the  Brow  ?  Me  was  not  in 
delirium — till  within  two  days  of  his  death.  Small  sums  he  had 
occasionally  borrowed  and  repaid  ;  but  from  people  as  poor  as 
himself;  such  as  kind  Craig,  the  schoolmaster,  to  wliom,  at  Iiis 
death,  he  owed  a  pound — never  from  the  more  opulent  townfolk 
or  the  gentry  in  the  neighborhood,  of  not  one  of  whom  is  it  re- 
corded that' he  or  she  accommodated  the  dying  Poet  with  a  loan 
suflicient  to  pay  for  a  week's  porridge  and  milk,  l^et  us  have 
no  more  disgusting  palaver  about  his  pride.  His  heart  would 
have  melted  within  him  at  any  act  of  considerate  frieiidship 
flone  to  his  family  ;  and  so  far  from  feeling  that  by  accepting  it 
he  had  become  a  pau[)er,  he  would  have  recognized  in  the  doer 
of  it  a  brother,  and  taken  him  into  his  heart.  And  had  he  not 
in  all  ijje  earth,  one  single  such  Friend  ?     His  brother  Cilbert 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  215 


was  struggling  with  severe  difficulties  at  Mossgiel,  and  was  tlien 
unable  to  assist  hitn  ;  and  his  excellent  cousin  at  Montrose  had 
enou"h  to  do  to  u)aiiitain  liis  own  family  ;  but  as  soon  as  he 
kniiw  how  matters  stood,  he  showed  tha^  the  true  Burns'  blood 
was  in  his  heart,  and  after  the  Poet's  death,  was  as  kind  as  man 
could  be  to  his  widow  and  children. 

What  had  come  over  Mrs.  Dunlop  that  she  should  have 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  or  forsaken  him  ?  "  These  many 
months  you  have  been  two  packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of 
ignorance  I  have  committed  against  so  highly  valued  a  friend  I 
am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  guess  !  Alas  !  Madam,  ill  can  I  aiTord, 
at  this  time,  to  be  deprived  of  any  of  the  small  remnant  of  my 
pleasures.  *  *  .*  I  had  scarcely  begun  to  recover 
from  that  shock  (the  death  of  his  little  daughter),  when  I  bo- 
came  myself  the  victim  of  a  most  severe  rheumatic  fever,  and 
long  the  die  spun  doubtful ;  until,  after  many  weeks  of  a  sick 
bed,  it  seems  to  have  turned  up  life,  and  I  am  beginning  to  crawl 
across  my  I'oom,  and  once,  indeed,  have  been  before  my  own 
door  in  the  street."  No  answer  came  ;  and  three  months  after 
he  wrote  from  the  Brow,  "  Madam — I  have  written  vou  so  often 
without  receiving  any  answer,  that  I  would  not  trouble  you 
again  but  for  the  circumstances  in  which  I  am.  An  illness 
which  has  long  hung  about  me,  in  all  probability  will  speedily 
send  me  be3'ond  that  hourne  xohence  no  traveller  returns.  Your 
friendship,  with  which  for  many  years  you  honored  me,  was  a 
friendship  dearest  to  iny  soul.  Your  conversation,  and  espe- 
cially your  correspondence,  were  at  once  highly  entertaining 
and  instructive.  With  what  pleasure  did  1  use  to  break  up  the 
seal  !  The  remembrance  yet  adds  one  pulse  more  to  my  poor 
palpitating  heart.  Farewell.  R.  B."  Currie  says,  "Burns 
had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  his 
friend's  silence,  and  an  assurance  of  the  continuance  of  her 
friendship  to  his  widow  and  children  ;  an  assurance  that  has 
been  amply  fulfilled.  That  "satisfactory  explanation"  should 
have  been  given  to  the  world — it  should  be  given  yet — for  with- 
out it  such  incomprehensible  silence  must  continue  to  seem 
cruel ;  and  it  is  due  to  the  memory  of  one  whom  Burns  loved 

19 


216  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  honored  to  the  last,  to  vindicate  on  her  part  the  faithfulness 
of  the  friendship  which  preserves  her  name. 

Maria  Riddel,  a  lady  of  fine  talents  and  accomplishments,  and 
though  somewhat  capricious  in  the  consciousness  of  her  mental 
and  personal  attractions,  yet  of  most  amiable  disposition,  and 
of  an  affectionate  and  tender  heart,  was  so  little  aware  of  the 
condition  of  the  Poet,  whose  genius  she  could  so  well  appreciate, 
that  only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  when  he  could  hardly 
crawl,  he  had  by  letter  to  decline  acceding  to  her  "  desire  that 
he  would  go  to  the  birth-day  assembly,  on  the  4th  June,  to  skoto 
his  loyalty  /"  Alas  !  he  was  fast  "  wearin'  awa  to  the  land  o' 
the  leal  ;"  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  that  lady  gay, 
herself  in  poor  health,  and '  saddened  out  of  such  vanities  by 
since  rest  sorrow,  was  struck  with  his  appearance  on  entering 
the  room.  "  The  stamp  of  death  was  imprinted  on  his  features. 
He  seemed  already  touching  the  brink  of  eternity.  His  first 
salutation  was — '  Well,  Madam,  have  you  any  commands  for 
the  next  world  V  "  The  best  men  have  indulged  in  such  sallies, 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  Nor  has  the  utterance  of  words  like 
these,  as  life's  taper  was  flickering  in  the  socket,  been  felt  to 
denote  a  mood  of  levity  unbecoming  a  creature  about  to  go  to 
his  account.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  something  very  affect- 
ing in  the  application  of  such  formulas  of  speech  as  had  been 
of  familiar  use  all  iiis  days,  on  his  passage  through  the  shadow 
of  time,  now  that  his  being  is  about  to  be  liberated  into  the 
light  of  eternity,  where  our  mortal  language  is  heard  not,  and 
spirit  communicates  with  spirit  through  organs  not  made  of  clay, 
having  dropped  the  body  like  a  garment. 

In  that  interview,  the  last  recorded,  and  it  is  recorded  well — 
pity  so  much  should  have  been  suppressed — "he  spoke  of  his 
death  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of  philosophy,  but  with 
firmness  as  well  as  feeling,  as  an  event  likely  to  happen  very 
soon,  and  which  gave  him  concern  chiefly  from  leaving  his  poor 
chihiren  so  young  and  unprotected,  and  his  wife  in  so  interesting 
a  situation,  in  hourly  expectation  of  lying  in  of  a  fifth."  Yet, 
during  the  whole  afternoon,  he  was  cheerful,  even  gay,  and  dis- 
posed for  pleasantry  ;  such  is  the  power  of  the  human  voice 
and  the  human  eye  over  the  human  heart,   almost   to  the  re- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS.  217 


suscitation  of  drowned  hope,  when  they  are  both  suffused  with 
affection,  when  tones  are  as  tender  as  tears,  yet  can  better 
hide  the  pity  that  ever  and  anon  will  be  gushing  from  the  lids 
of  grief.  He  expressed  deep  contrition  for  having  been  betrayed 
by  his  inferior  nature  and  vicious  sympathy  with  the  dissolute, 
into  impurities  in  verse,  which  he  knew  were  floating  about 
among  people  of  loose  lives,  and  might  on  his  death  be  collected 
to  the  hurt  of  his  moral  character.  Never  had  Burns  been 
"hired  minstrel  of  voluptuous  blandishment,"  nor  by  such  un- 
guarded freedom  of  speech  had  he  ever  sought  to  corrupt ;  but 
emulating  the  ribaH  wit  and  coarse  humor  of  some  of  the  worst 
old  ballants  current  among  the  lower  orders  of  the  people,  of 
whom  the  moral  and  religious  are  often  tolerant  of  indecencies 
to  a  strange  degree,  he  felt  that  he  had  sinned  against  his  ge- 
nius. A  miscreant,  aware  of  his  poverty,  had  made  him  an 
offer  of  fifty  pounds  for  a  collection,  which  he  repelled  with  the 
horror  of  remorse.  Such  things  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
existence ;  the  polluted  perishes,  or  shovelled  aside  from  the 
socialities  of  mirthful  men,  are  nearly  obsolete,  except  among 
those  whose  thoughtlessness  is  so  great  as  to  be  sinful,  amonp- 
whom  the  distinction  ceases  between  the  weak  and  the  wicked. 
From  such  painful  thoughts  he  turned  to  his  poetry,  that  had 
every  year  been  becoming  dearer  and  dearer  to  the  people,  and 
he  had  comfort  in  the  assurance  that  it  was  pure  and  good  ;  and 
he  wished  to  live  a  little  longer  that  he  might  mend  'his  Songs, 
for  through  them  he  felt  he  would  survive  in  the  hearts  of  the 
dwellers  in  cottage-homes  all  over  Scotland  ;  and  in  the  fond 
imagination  of  his  heart  Scotland  to  him  was  all  the  world. 

"  He  spoke  of  his  death  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of  phi- 
losophy," and  perhaps  without  any  reference  to  religion  ;  for 
dying  men  often  keep  their  profoundest  thoughts  to  themselves, 
except  in  the  chamber  in  which  they  believe  they  are  about  to 
have  the  last  look  of  the  objects  of  their  earthly  love,  and  there 
they  give  them  utterance  in  a  few  words  of  hope  and  trust. 
While  yet  walking  about  in  the  open  air,  and  visiting  their  friends, 
they  continue  to  converse  about  the  things  of  this  life  in  lan- 
guage so  full  of  animation,  that  you  might  think,  but  for  some- 
thing about  their  eyes,  that  they  are  unconscious  of  their  doom  ; 


218  THE  GENIUS  AND 


and  so  at  times  they  are  ;  for  the  customary  pleasure  of  social 
intercourse  does  not  desert  them  ;  the  sight  of  others  well  and 
happy  beguiles  them  of  the  mournful  knowledge  that  their  own 
term  has  nearly  expired,  and  in  that  oblivion  they  are  cheerful 
as  the  persons  seem  to  be  who  for  their  sakes  assume  a  smiling 
aspect  in  spite  of  struggling  tears.  So  was  it  with  Burns  at  tiie 
Brow.  But  he  had  his  Bible  with  him  in  his  lodgings,  and  he 
read  it  almost  continually — often  when  seated  on  a  bank,  from 
which  he  had  difficulty  in  rising  without  assistance,  for  his  weal*. 
ness  was  extreme,  and  in  his  emaciation  he  was  like  a  ghost. 
The  fire  of  his  eye  was.  not  dimmed — indeed  fever  had  lighted 
it  up  beyond  even  its  natural  briglitness ;  and  though  his  voice, 
once  so  various,  was  now  hollow,  his  discourse  was  still  that  of 
a  Poet.  To  the  last  he  loved  the  sunshine,  the  grass,  and  the 
flowers;  to  the  last  he  had  a  kind  look  and  word  for  the  pass- 
ers-by, who  all  knew  it  was  Burns.  Laboring  men,  on  their 
way  from  work,  would  step  aside  to  the  two  or  three  houses 
called  the  Brow,  to  know  if  there  was  any  hope  of  his  life  ;  and 
it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  devout  people  remembered  him,  who 
had  written  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,  in  their  prayers..  His 
sceptical  doubts  no  longer  troubled  him  ;  they  had  never  been 
more  than  shadows;  and  he  had  at  last  the  faith  of  a  confiding 
Christian.  We  are  not  even  to  suppose  that  his  heart  was  always 
disquieted  within  him  because  of  the  helpless  condition  of  his 
widow  and  orphans.  That  must' have  been  indeed  with  him  a 
dismal  day  on  which  he  wrote  three  letters  about  them  so  full  of 
anguish  ;  but  to  give  vent  to  grief  in  passionate  outcries  usually 
assuages  it,  and  tranquillity  sometimes  steals  upon  despair.  His 
belief  that  he  was  so  sunk  in  debt  was  a  delusion — not  of  deli- 
rium, but  of  the  fear  that  is  in  love.  And  comfort  must  have 
come  to  him  in  the  conviction  that  his  country  would  not  sufler 
the  family  of  her  Poot  to  be  in  want.  As  long  as  he  had  health 
thfy  were  happy,  though  poor  ;  as  long  as  he  was  alive,  they 
were  not  utterly  dtstitute.  That  on  liis  death  they  would  be 
paupers,  was  a  dread  that  could  have  had  rio  abiding  place  in  a 
heart  that  knew  how  it  had  beat  for  Scotland,  and  in  the  power 
of  genius  had  poured  out  all  its  love  on  her  fields  and  her  people. 
His  heart  was  pierced  with  the  same  wounds  that  extort  lamen. 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS,  219 

tations  from  the  death-beds  of  ordinary  men,  thinking  of  what 
will  become  of  wife  and  children  ;  but  liiie  the  pouring  of  oil 
upon  them  by  some  gracious  hand,  must  have  been  the  frequent 
recurrence  of  the  belief — "  On  my  death  people  will  pity  them, 
and  care  for  them  for  my  name's  sake."  Some  little  matter  of 
money  he  knew  he  should  leave  behind  him — the  two  hundred 
pounds  he  had  lent  to  his  brother  ;  and  it  sorely  grieved  him  to 
think  that  Gilbert  might  be  ruined  by  having  to  return  it.  What 
brotherly  affection  was  there  !  They  had  not  met  for  a  good 
many  years  ;  but  personal  intercourse  was  not  required  to  sus- 
tain their  friendship.  At  the  Brow  often  must  the  dying  Poet 
have  remembered  Mossgiel. 

On  the  near  approach  of  death  he  returned  to  his  own  house, 
in  a  spring-cart ;  and  having  left  it  at  the  foot  of  the  street,  he  could 
just  totter  up  to  his  door.  The  last  words  his  hand  had  strength 
to  put  on  paper  were  to  his  wife's  father,  and  were  written  pro- 
bably within  an  hour  of  his  return  home.  "  My  dear  Sir — Do, 
for  heaven's  sake,  send  Mrs.  Armour  here  immediately.  My 
wife  is  hourly  expected  to  be  put  to  bed  !  Good  God  !  what 
a  situation  for  her  to  be  in,  poor  girl,  without  a  friend  !  I 
returned  from  sea-bathing  quarters  to-day;  and  my  medical 
friends  would  almost  persuade  me  that  I  am  better  ;  but  I 
think  and  feel  that  my  strength  is  so  gone,  that  tlie  disorder 
will  prove  fatal  to  me.  Your  son-in-law,  11.  B."  That  is  not 
the  letter  of  a  man  in  delirium  ;  nor  was  the  letter  written  a 
few  days  betbre  from  the  Brow  to  "  my  dearest  love."  But 
next  day  he  was  delirious,  and  the  day  after  too,  though  on 
being  spoken  to  he  roused  himself  into  collected  and  composed 
thought,  and  was,  ever  and  anon,  for  a  few  minutes  himself — 
Robert  Burns.  In  his  delirium  there  was  nothing  to  distress  the 
listeners  and  the  lookers  on  ;  words  were  heard  that  to  them  had 
no  meaning  ;  mistakings  made  by  the  parting  spirit  among  its 
language  now  in  confusion  breaking  up  ;  and  sometimes  words 
of  trifling  import  about  trifling  things — about  incidents  and 
events  unnoticed  in  their  happening,  but  now  strangely  cared 
for  in  their  final  repassing  before  the  closed  eyes  just  ere  the 
dissolution  of  the  dream  of  a  dream.  Nor  did  his  death-bed 
want  for  aHectionate  and    faithful  service.     The  few  who  were 


220  THE  GENIUS  AND 


privileged  to  tend  it  did  so  tenderly  and  reverently — how  by  the 
side  of  the  sick  wife,  and  now  by  that  of  the  dying  husband. 
Maxwell,  a  kind  physician,  came  often  to  gaze  in  sadness  where 
no  skill  could  relieve.  Fiudlater,  supervisor  of  excise,  sat  by  his 
bed-side  the  night  before  he  died  ;  and  Jessie  Lewars,  daughter 
and  sister  of  a  gauger,  was  his  sick  nurse.  Had  he  been  her 
own  father,  she  could  not  have  done  her  duty  with  a  more  per- 
fect devotion  of  her  whole  filial  heart — and  her  name  will  never 
die,  "  here  eternized  on  earth"  by  the  genius  of  the  Poet  who, 
for  all  her  Christian  kindness  to  him  and  his,  had  long  cherished 
toward  her  the  tenderest  gratitude.  His  children  had  been  taken 
care  of  by  friends,  and  were  led  in  to  be  near  him,  now  that  his 
hour  was  come.  His  wife  in  her  own  bed  knew  it,  as  soon  as 
her  Robert  was  taken  from  her ;  and  the  great  Poet  of  the  Scot- 
tish people,  who  had  been  born  "  in  the  auld  clay  biggin  "  on  a 
stormy  winter  night,  died  in  an  humble  tenement  on  a  bright 
summer  morning,  among  humble  folk,  who  composed  his  body, 
and  according  to  custom  strewed  around  it  flowers  brought  from 
their  own  gardens. 

Great  was  the  grief  of  the  people  for  their  Poet's  death.  They 
felt  that  they  had  lost  their  greatest  man  ;  and  it  is  no  exagge- 
ration to  say  that  Scotland  was  saddened  on  the  day  of  his  fune- 
ral. It  is  seldom  that  tears  are  shed  even  close  to  the  grave 
beyond  the  inner  circle  that  narrows  round  it ;  but  that  day 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  many  far  oflT  at  their  work,  and 
that  night  there  was  silence  in  thousands  of  cottages  that  had 
so  often  heard  his  songs — how  sweeter  far  than  any  other, 
whether  mournfully  or  merrily  to  old  accordant  melodies  they 
won  their  way  into  the  heart !  The  people  had  always  loved 
him;  they  best  understood  his  character,  its  strength  and  its 
weakness.  Not  among  them  at  any  time  had  it  been  harshly 
judged,  and  they  allowed  him  now  the  sacred  privileges  of  the 
grave.  The  religious  have  done  so  ever  since,  pitying  more 
than  condemning,  nor  afraid  to  praise  ;  for  they  have  confessed 
to  themselves,  that  had  there  been  a  window  in  their  breasts  as 
there  was  in  that  of  Burns,  worse  sights  might  have  been  seen — 
a  darkei  revelation.  His  country  charged  herself  with  the 
care  of  them  he  had  loved  so  well,  and  the  spirit  in  which  she- 


CHARACTER  OF  BURiNS.  221 

performed  her  duty  is  the  best  proof  that  her  neglect — if  neglect 
at  any  time  there  were — of  her  Poet's  well-being  had  not  been 
wilful,  but  is  to  be  numbered  with  those  omissions  incident  to  all 
human  affairs,  more  to  be  lamented  than  blamed,  and  if  not 
to  be  forgotten,  surely  to  be  forgiven,  even  by  the  nations 
who  may  have  nothing  to  reproach  themselves  with  in  their  con- 
duct towards  any  of  their  great  poets.  England,  "  the  foremost 
land  of  all  this  world,"  was  not  slack  to  join  in  her  sister's  sor- 
row, and  proved  the  sincerity  of  her  own,  not  by  barren  words, 
but  fruitful  deeds,  and  best  of  all  by  fervent  love  and  admiration 
of  the  poetry  that  had  opened  up  so  many  delightful  views  into 
the  character  and  condition  of  our  "  bold  peasantry,  their  coun- 
try's pride,"  worthy  compatriots  with  her  own,  and  exhibiting 
in  different  Manners  the  same  national  Virtues. 

No  doubt  wonder  at  a  prodigy  had  mingled  in  many  minds 
with  admiration  of  the  ploughman's  poetry  ;  and  when  they  of 
their  wondering  found  an  end,  such  persons  began  to  talk  with 
abated  enthusiasm  of  his  genius  and  increased  severity  of  his 
character,  so  that  during  intervals  of  silence,  an  under  current 
of  detraction  was  frequently  heard  brawling  with  an  ugly  noise. 
But  the  main  stream  soon  ran  itself  clear  ;  and  Burns  has  no 
abusers  now  out  of  the  superannuated  list ;  out  of  it — better  still 
— he  has  no  patrons.  In  our  youth  "we  have  heard  him  spoken 
of  by  the  big-wigs  with  exceeding  condescension  ;  now  the 
tallest  men  know  that  to  see  his  features  rightly  they  must  look 
up.  Shakspeare,  Spencer,  and  Milton,  are  unapproachable ; 
but  the  present  era  is  the  most  splendid  in  the  history  of  our 
poetry — in  England  beginning  with  Cowper,  in  Scotland  with 
Burns.  Original  and  racy,  each  in  his  own  land  is  yet  unex- 
celled ;  immovably  they  both  keep  their  places — their  inherit- 
ance  is  sure.  Changes  wide  and  deep,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
have  been  long  going  on  in  town  and  country.  There  is  now 
among  the  people  more  education — more  knowledge  than  at 
any  former  day.  Their  worldly  condition  is  more  prosperous, 
while  there  is  still  among  them  a  deep  religious  spirit.  By  that 
spirit  alone  can  they  be  secured  in  the  good,  and  saved  from  the 
evil  of  knowledge;  but  the  spirit  of  poetry  is  akin  to  that  of  re- 
ligion, and  the  union  of  the  two  is  in  no  human  composition  more 


222  THE  GENIUS  AND  CHARACTER  OF  BURNS. 


powerful  than  in  "  the  Cottar's  Saturday  Night."  "  Let  who 
may  have  the  making  of  the  laws  give  me  tne  making  of  the 
ballads  of  a  people,"  is  a  profound  saying  ;  and  the  truth  it 
somewhat  paradoxically  expresses  is  in  much  as  applicable  to  a 
cultivated  and  intellectual  as  to  a  rude  and  imaginative  age. 
From  our  old  traditional  ballads  we  know  what  was  dearest  to 
the  hearts  and  souls  of  the  people.  How  much  deeper  must  be 
the  power  over  them  of  the  poems  and  songs  of  such  a  man  as 
Burns,  of  himself  alone  superior  in  genius  to  all  those  nameless 
minstrels,  and  of  a  nobler  nature;  and  yet  more  endeared  to 
them  by  pity  for  the  sorrows  that  clouded  the  close  of  his  life. 


T  H  rJ      END. 


,\' 


CATALOGUE   OF  BOOKS 


( I 


PUBLISHED   BY 


i  WILLIAM    GOWANS.  I 


^Ignorance  it  tkt  cur«  of  God  \  knoxrledgt  the  mi*^  whertwitk  ice /tf/  to  heaven.'^ 


Shakeapeahb. 


"  without   b-joka   God    is   silent^  justice   dormaiit.  natural  science   at    a  atand,  philoaoyhy         ^ 
Uunty  UiU't  dumb^  and  all  ih\*.;i  invih'ed  in  CimrMrian  darkntaa.'* Baktiiulin.         ) 


1! 


Nos.  81,  83,  AND  85  CENTRE  STREET. 


NEW    YORK 
1861. 


CATALOGUE 


OP 


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I-arge  Paper.     4to.     Only  100  were  printed.     $3.00.  1845. 

Cupper,  H.  A. 

Tho  Universal  Stair  Builder:  being  a  new  Treatise  on  the  Con 
struction  of  Staircases  and  Hand-rails,  showing  plans  of  the  va- 
rious forms  of  stairs,  method  of  placing  the  risers  in  the  cylin- 
ders, general  method  of  describing  the  face-moulds  for  a  hand-rail, 
and  an  expeditious  method  of  squaring  the  rail.  Useful,  also, 
to  stone-masons,  constructing  stone  stairs  and  hand-rails;  with 
a  new  method  of  sawing  the  twist  part  of  any  hand-rail  square 
from  the  face  of  the  plank,  and  to  a  parallel  width.  Also,  a 
new  method  of  forming  the  casings  of  the  rail  by  a  gauge.  Pre- 
ceded by  some  necessary  Problems  on  Practical  Geometry,  with 
the  sections  of  Prismatic  Solids.  Illustrated  by  29  Plates.  4to. 
pp.  30.     $6.00. 

***  By  competent  judges  this  book  is  accounted  the  best  that  has,  at  yet,  ap- 
peared on  the  subject  of  Stair  Building. 

Colton,  O.  O. — Lacon  ^ 

Or,  Many  Things  in  Few  Words,  addressed  to  These  "Who  Think, 
By  the  Rev.  C.  C.  Colton.  Revised  edition,  with  an  Index, 
and  Life  of  Colton.     8vo.     pp.  504.     $2.00.  1849. 

21ie  Same  Worh. 

In  one  vol.     12mo.     pp.  504.     $1.25.  1849, 

Ally 71,  Avery. 

A  Ritual  of  Freemasonry,  illustrated  by  thirty  engravings.  To 
which  is  added,  q,  Key  to  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  the  Orange,  and 
Odd  Fellows' Societies.  "With -Notes  and  Remarks.  By  Averi 
Alltn.     12rao.     pp.  269.     $5.00.  1881 


William  Gowani  Publications. 
Jocliiii  and  Boaz  / 

Or,  an  Authentic  Key  to  the  Door  oi  Freemasonry,  both  Ancient 
and  Modern,  calculated  not  only  for  the  Instruction  of  every 
New-Made  Mason,  hut  also  for  ihe  Information  of  all  who  intend 
to  become  Brethren.  Interspersed  with  a  variety  of  jSotes  and 
Kemarks,  necessary  to  explain  and  render  the  whole  clear  to  the 
meanest  capacity ;  also,  a  New  and  Accurate  List  of  all  the 
English  Regular  Lodges  in  the  World,  according  to  their  Seni- 
ority, with  the'dates  of  each  Constitution,  and  Days  of  Meeting; 
to  which  is  added,  Masonry  Dissected,  by  Samuel  Piuchard,  and 
The  Freemason's  Winepress,  consisting  of  Toasts,  Sentiments,  ana 
Anecdotes ;  and  a  Catalogue  of  Books  ou  Freemasonry,  and  Kin- 
dred Subjects.     12mo.     pp.  200.     $2.50.  New  York,  1857 

G-owans^  William. 

A  Catalogue  of  Books  on  Freemasonry  and  Kindreu  Subjects. 
Compiled  by  W.  G.     12mo.    pp.  59.    $L25.    New  York,  1858. 

"  Book  Catalogues  are  to  men  of  letters  what  the  compass  and  the  lighthouse 
are  to  the  mariner,  the  railroad  to  the  merchant,  the  telegraph  wires  to  the  editor, 
the  digested  index  to  the  lawyer,  the  pharmacopoeia  and  the  dispensatory  to  the 
physician,  the  sign-post  to  the  traveller,  the  screw,  the  wedge,  and  the  lever  to  the 
mehcanic :  in  short,  they  are  the  labor-saving  machines,  the  concordance  of  litera- 
ture."—  Western  Memorabilia. 

Ra?ji-sa2/^  Allan.     The  Gentle  Slieplierd : 

A  Pastoral  Comedy,  in  Five  Acts.  To  which  is  added  the  Life 
of  the  Author,  an  authentic  Portrait,  Criticisms  on  the  Play  by 
various  eminent  writers,  a  new  and  carefully  compiled  Glossary, 
and  a  Catalogue  of  all  the  Scottish  Poets.    12rao.    f  1.00.    1852. 

Tlie  Same  WorK 

Large  paper,  with  Portrait  on  India  paper.  8vo.  Only  100 
copies  printed.     $3.50.  1852. 

The  Same  WorTc. 

Extra  large  paper,  with  Portrait  on  India  paper.  4tq.  Only 
50  copies  printed.     $6.00.  1852. 

The  Same  Worh. 

Cheap  edition,  without  the  introductory  Matter,  Portrait,  and 
Catalogue.     37^  cents. 


6  A  Catalogue  of 

Coleridge^  8.  T. 

liiugraphia  Literaiia ;  or,  Biograpliical  Sketches  of  My  Literarj 
Life  and  Opinions.  From  tlie  Second  London  Edition.  Pre- 
pared for  publication  in  part  by  H.  N.  Coleridge.  2  vols,  tliick 
12mo.     pp.  804.    $1.50,        '  1852. 

The  Same  Worh. 

.Large  paper.     Svo.     pp.804.     $3.00.  1852. 

California. 

The  Wonder  of  the  Age.  A  book  for  every  one  going  to  or  hav 
ing  an  interest  in  that  Golden  Region;  being  the  Report  of 
Thomas  Butler  King,  United  States'  Government  Agent  in  and 
for  California.     Svo.     pp.  34.     12^  cents.  1850. 

Hocliefoucauld,^  Due  de  la. 

Moral  Reflections,  Sentences,  and  Maxims.  Newly  translated 
from  the  French ;  with  an  Introduction  and  copious  Notes,  and  a 
Life  of  the  Author.  With  an  Elegant  steel  Portrait.  To  which 
is  added  the  Moral  Sentences  and  Maxims  of  the ^rootf  Stanislaus, 
King  of  Poland.  Also  a  Catalogue  of  all  the  Books  written  on 
Proverbs,  Maxims,  Sayings,  Sentences,  Apophthegms,  Simili- 
tudes, etc.,  etc.     12mo.     pp.  237.     $1.25.  1851. 

The  Same  Worlc. 

Large  pftper,  with  the  Portrait  on  India  paper.  Svo.  pp.  237. 
Only  100  copies  were  printed.     $2.50.  1851. 

The  Same  Worlc. 

Extra  large  paper,  with  the  Portrait  on  India  paper.  4to.  ppt 
237.     Only  25  copies  were  printed.     $6.00.  1851. 

Taylor^  Isaac. 

Physical  Tlieory  of  Another  Life.  To  which  is  added  a  Cata- 
logue of  all  the  author's  writings,  and  a  Catalogue  of  all  the 
books  published  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul.  12mo.  pp. 
278.     $1.00.  1852. 


William  Gowans'  Publications. 


I 


Taylor^  Isaac. 

Elements  of  Thought;  or,  Concise  Explanations  [alp/iabelicalli, 
arranged);  or,  The  Piineipal  Terms  Employed  in  the  lutelleetua! 
Philosophy.     I'imo.     pp.  180.     75  cents.  1851. 

Faber.^  Rev.  George  Stanley.,  B.  D. 

Difficulties  of  Infidelity.  To  which  is  added,  Modern  Infidelity 
Considered  by  Robert  Hall,  and  a  Catalogue  of  all  the  books 
tiiat  have  been  published  on  the  Evidence  of  Revealed  Religion, 
also,  a  list  of  Mr.  Fabeu's  published  writings.  I'imo.  pp.  300. 
cloth.     $1.00.  1853. 

O'Meara^  Barry  E.^  Esq. 

Napoleon  in  Exile ;  or,  a  Voice  from  St»  Helena.  Being  the  Re- 
flections and  Opinions  of  Napoleon,  on  the  most  Memorable  and 
Important  Events  of  his  Life  and  Government  In  his  own 
words.  With  Engravings.  2  vols.  12mo.  pp.  540  and  552. 
cloth.     $2.00.  1853. 

The  Same  Worlc. 

.Royal  8vo.     2  vols.     pp.  540  and  552.     fS.OO.  1853. 

"A  work  professing  to  give  minute  details  of  tlie  private  life,  and  especially 
W\^  Mnreaerved  conversniion  of  the  most  bkmakkablk  person-^ge  who  has  ap- 
peared in  modern  times,  must  possess  the  very  highest  claims  to  attention.  *  *  * 
Mr.  O'Meara  very  naturally  kept  a  journal  of  what  passed  between  himself  and 
his  illustrious  patient,  and  the  work  before  us  consists  of  this  journal." 

Kingsbury.,  Harmon. 

Tiie  Great  Law  Book.  The  Kingdom  and  Reign  of  the  Messiah, 
his  Subjects,  Precepts,  and  Government.  With  Preliminary  Re- 
marks on  the  Bible,  its  Author,  Dispensations,  and  other  King- 
doms.    12mo.     pp.  312.     75  cents.  1867. 

Goivans^  William. 

His  Book  Catalogues,  from  1  to  18,  both  inclusive.  Royal  Svo 
clotK     $2.00.  ■  New  York,  1842-59 


8  A   Catalog  lie  of 


Carlile^  Michard. 


A  Manual  of  the  Three  First  Degrees  of  Masonry.  "With  an  In- 
troductory Key-Stone  to  the  Royal  Arch.  12mo.  pp.  about 
350.     $2.50.  1860 

WJiaiely^  ArMishop. 

A  General  View  of  the  Rise,  Progress,  and  Corruptions  of  Chris- 
tianity. "With  a  Sketch  of  the  Life  of  the  Author  and  a  Catalogue 
of  his  Writings.     12mo.     pp.  288.     $1.25.  1860 

Taylor^  Isaac. 

Logic  in  Theology  and  other  Essays.  With  a  Sketch  of  the 
Author's  Life  and  a  Catalogue  of  his  Writings.  12mo.  pp.  300. 
$1.25.  1860 

Moon  Hoax. 

The  Moon  Hoax;  or,  a  Discovery  that  the  Moon  has  a  Yast 
Population  of  Human  Beings.  By  Richard  Adams  Locke. 
Illustrated  with  a  View  of  the  Moon  as  seen  by  Lord  Rosse's 
Telescope,  and  an  Appendix  sliowing  how  the  Moon  is  known 
at  the  present  time.     8vo.    pp.  63.     50  cents.  1859. 


Wooley,  Charles. 


Journal  of  a  Two  Tears'  Residence  in  the  City  of  New  Tork 
(1679-80),  and  part  of  its  Territories  in  America.  A  New 
Edition,  with  an  Introduction  and  Copious  Historical  Notes.  By 
E.  B.  O'Callaqhan,  M.D.    8vo.    pp.  97.    $2.00.  1860 

The  Same  Work 

Large  paj^er,  4to.    Only  60  printed.    $6.00.  1860. 


A  Catalogue  of 


REMAIIN'DERS  OF  EDITIONS 

BY     OTHER     PUBLISHERS, 


Gall^  Jolm  Joseph. 

The  riirenological  Works  o£  Translated  into  English  by  W 
Lewis.     6  vols.     12rao.     clotlu     $7.50.  Boston,  1835 

Blake,  W.  J, 

The  History  of  Putnam  County,  New  York,  with  an  enumera- 
tion of  its  Towns,  Villages,  Rivers,  Creeks,  Lakes,  Ponds,  Moun- 
tains, Hills,  and  Geological  Features,  Local  Traditions,  and  short 
Biographical  Sketches  of  Early  Settlers.  12mo.  cloth,  pp.  368. 
$1.50.  New  York,  1849. 

Louinana. 

Historical  Collections,  embracing  translations  from  many  rare  and 
valuable  documents  relating  to  the  Natural  and  Local  and  Po- 
litical History  of  that  State.  Compiled  with  Historical  and 
Biographical  Notices,  by  B.  F.  French.  2d  vol.  Map.  8vo. 
cloth,    pp.301.  New  York  and  Philadelphia. 

This  volume,  besides  seven  other  rare  tracts,  contains  Daniel  Cox's  Description 
>f  Carolina. 

Bastow,  George. 

History  of  New  Hampshire,  from  its  Discovery  in  1614  to  th« 
passage  of  the  Toleration  Act  in  1819.  Second  edition.  8^-o. 
cloth,     pp.  456.     $1.00.  New  York,  1853. 

Valentine.^  David  T.      .  ' 

History  of  the  City  of  New  York.  Maps,  Plans,  and  Illustra- 
tions.    8vo.     cloth,     pp.  404.     $1.60.  New  York,  1853 


William  Gowam^  Puhlications.  9 

Rliode  Idand  JRqmdiation. 

Or,  Tlie  History  of  the  Revolutionary  Debt  of  Rliode  Island,  b5 
John  W.  Richmond.  8vo.    pp.  22-1.  75  cents.       Providence,  1855 

Stobo^  Ilohert^ 

Major  of  the  Colonial  Army  under  General  Braddock  durini, 
t!ie  French  War  in  the  Western  Territories  of  North  America 
With  a  Plan  of  Fort  Du  Quesne.   ISmo.  pp.  92.    Pittsburg,  1854 

Stuart,  Moses. 

A  Grammar  of  the  New  Testament  Dialect.  Second  edition 
corrected  and  mostly  written  anew.  8vo.  cloth,  pp.  312.  50 
cents.  Andover,  1857. 

Fourier.^  Charles^ 

The  Life  of.  By  Cn.  Pellarin,  M,  D.  Second  edition,  with  an 
Appendi.K.  Translated  by  Francis  Geo.  Shaw.  12ino.  pp.  236. 
50  cents.  .New  York,  1848. 

lliomciB.,  Gahriel. 

An  Historical  and  Geographical  Account  of  the  Province  and 
Country  of  Pennpylvaiiia,  and  of  West  New  Jersey,  in  America  ; 
the  Richness  of  the  Soil,  the  Sweetness  of  the  Situation,  the 
Wliolesomeness  of  tiie  Air,  the  Navigable  Rivers  and  others,  tlie 
Prodigious  Increase  of  Corn,  the  Flourishing  Condition  of  lh» 
City  of  Pliiiadolphia,  with  the  statelj'  buildings  and  other  im 
provements  there ;  the  strange  creatures,  as  Birds,  Beasts 
Fishes,  and  Fowls ;  with  tlie  several  sorts  of  Minerals,  Purging 
Waters,  and  Stones  lately  discovered  ;  the  Natives — Aborigines 
their  Language,  Religion,  Laws,  and  Customs;  the  first  Planters 
theDutch,  Swedes,  and  English;  with  the  number  of  its  inhabit- 
ants. As  also,  a  touch  upon  George  Keith's  New  Religion,  in 
his  second  change  since  he  left  the  Quakers,  with  a  Map  of  both 
countries.    12mo.    pp.  100.    $1.50.    (Reprint,  New  York,  1848.' 

London,  1098. 

Treasury  of  Knowledge., 

and  Library  of  Reference,  containing  Gazetteer,  Dictionary, 
Tables,  Grammar,  American  Biography,  etc.,  etc.  New  and 
Revised  Edition.     3  vols.     12mo.     clotK     $2.50. 

New  York,  1 855 


10  A  Catalogue  of 

Tous-saint  V  Ouverture^ 

The  Life  of.  The  Negro  Patriot  of  Hayti :  comprising  an  Ac- 
count of  the  Struggle  for  Liberty  in  the  Island,  and  a  Sketch  of 
its  History  to  the  present  period,  by  Rev.  John  R.  Beard,  D.  D., 
•with  numerous  illustrations.    12mo.    cloth,     pp.  340.     60  cents, 

London,  1853. 

Nefivton^  Sir  Isaac. 

Principia.  The  Mathematical  Principles  of  Natural  Philosophy, 
translated  into  English  by  Andrew  Motte:  to  which  is  added, 
Newton  System  of  the  World,  with  a  Portrait  taken  from  the 
bust  in  the  Royal  Observatory  at  Greenwich.  First  American 
edition,  carefully  revised  and  corrected,  with  a  Life  of  the  Au- 
thor, by  N.  \V.  Chittenden,  JL  A.  ^  8vo.   sheep,   pp.  581.     $3.25. 

New  York,  1846. 

Gouraud.,  Francis  Faurel. 

Practical  Cosmophonography :  a  System  of  'Writing  and  Prinv 
ing  all  the  principal  Languages,  with  their  exact  Pronunciation, 
by  means  of  an  original  Universal  Phonetic  Alphabet,  etc.,  as 
they  occur  in  different  Tongues  and  Dialects,  etc.,  illustrated  by 
numerous  plates,  explanatory  of  the  Calligraphic,  Steno-Phono- 
gi-aphic,  and  Typo-Phonograpic  adaptations  of  the  System; 
•witli  specimens  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  in  one  hundred  Lan- 
guages: to  which  is  prefixed,  a  General  Introduction,  etc.,  etc, 
8vo.     cloth.     $1.80  New  York,  1850 

Wise^  John. 

A  System  of  Aeronautics,  comprehending  its  Earliest  Investiga 
tions  and  Modern  Practice  and  Art,  designed  as  a  History  for 
the  common  Reader,  and  Guide  to  the  Student  of  the  Art.  Con 
taining  an  Account  of  the  various  attempts  in  the  Art  of  Flying. 
by  Arlificial  Means,  from  the  Earliest  Period  down  to  the  Aero 
nautic  Machine  bj-  the  Montgolfiers,  in  1782,  and  to  a  later  pe- 
riod, etc.,  etc.     Portrait  and  12  Plates.     8vo.     pp.310.     $1.50 

Philadelphia,  1850 

Knapp.^  Samuel  L. 

Advice  in  the  Pursuits  of  Literature,  containing  Histovical, 
Biographical,  and  Critical  Remarks,  r2nio.  cloth,  pp.  306. 
60  cents.  New  York,  1837 


William  Gowans'  Piiblicatiojis.  11 

Brodle^  Sir  Benjainiii. 

Mind  and  Matter;   or,  Physiological  Inquiries,  in  a  Series  oJ 
Essays,  intended  to  illustrate  tlie  mutual  relations  of  the  Physi 
cal   Organization   and    the  Mental   Faculties;    with   additional 
Notes,   by  an  American    Editor      l2mo      doth.     pp.  286,     56 
(rents  New  York,  1857. 

Boston  Massacre. 

A  short  Narrative  of  the  Horrid  Massacre  in  Boston,  perpetrated 
io  the  Evening  of  the  5th  of  March,  1770,  by  Soldiers  of  the 
29th  Regiment,  wliich,  with  the  14th  Regiment,  were  then  quar- 
tered there ;  with  some  Observations  on  the  State  of  Things  prior 
to  that  Catastrophe.  With  Frontispiece.  8vo.  cloth,  pp.  122. 
$1.00.  New  York,  1849. 

Andrervs.,  jStej?he/i  Pearl. 

Discoveries  in  Chinese,  or  the  Symbolism  of  the  Piimitive  Char- 
acters of  the  Chinese  System  of  Writing  as  a  Contribution  to 
Philology  and  Ethnology,  and  a  Practical  Aid  \n  the  Acquisition 
of  the  Chinese  Language.     12mo.     cloth,     pp.  137.     50•cent^ 

New  York,  1854. 

How.,  Henry. 

Virginia,  Historical  Collections  of:  containing  a  collection  of  the 
most  interesting  Facts,  Traditions,  Biographical  Sketches,  Anec- 
dotes, etc.,  relating  to  its  History  and  Antiquities,  together  will* 
Geographical  ajid  Statistical  Descriptions,  to  which  is  added. 
An  Historical  and  Descriptive  Sketch  of  the  District  of  Colum 
bia,  illustrated  by  over  100  engravings,  giving  Views  of  the 
principal  Towns,  Seats  of  Eminent  Men,  Public  Buildings,  Relics 
of  Antiquity,  Historic  Localities,  Natural  Scenerj-,  etc.,  etc 
Royal  8vo.     nhccp.     pp.  544.     $2.50.      Charleston,  S.  C,  1850. 

TaijJor.,  James  B. 

Lives  of   Virginia   Baptist  Ministers.     Second  edition,  revised 

and  enlarged.    12!no.    sheep,    pp.492.    $1.60.    Richmond,  183S. 

The  book  may  be  styled  the  Virginia  Baptist  I!iogi-ai>liical  Dicticnary  :  II  ylves 
!be  lives  of  one  hunditJ  and  tit'lileen  Baptist  Ministcfs. 


12      Catalogue  of  Wm.   Gowans^  Publicatio7is, 
Coohe^  George  Frederick^ 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of,  late  of  the  Tlieatre  Roj-al,  Cdvent  Gar- 
den, hy  William  Dunlap,  composed  principally  from  Journalg 
nnd  other  authentic  Documents  left  bj-  Mr.  Cooke,  and  the  per 
sonal  knowledge  of  the  writer.  Portrait  of  Cooke.  2  vols, 
18mo.     pp.  403  and  400.     $1.25.  New  York,  181  a 

Glenn^  Jame-9.  . 

The  Venereal  Disease:  its  primary  cause  explained,  and  the 
possihility  of  its  being  fully  prevented  described.  Never  befora 
published.  To  which  is  added,  A  Few  Remarks  on  the  Laws  re- 
garding Seduction,  Adulter}-,  and  Prostitution.  8vo.  pp.  12. 
20  cenl.'».  New  York,  1857. 

Poor  RiclicmVs  Almanac  {Ben  FranMhi)^ 

Including  all  his  Wise  Sayings,  Maxims,  and  Doggerel  Distiches, 
with  a  IJfe  of  Franklin  by  himself.  Portrait  and  three  plates,  a 
■     combination  of  the  years  17SC,  1737,  and  1738,  reprint,  elegantly 
got  up.     25  cents. 

•♦*  A  co]iy  of  an  ori>finaI  edition  of  the  above  three  yeara  was  lately  sold  in 
New  York  for  fSC.IK). 

Peterson^  Rev.  Edward. 

History  of  Rhode  Island.     Illustrated.     8vo.     cloth,     pp.  .S70 
fl.50.  New  York,  186.S 


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